<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>On one's knees by Anonymous</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29167011">On one's knees</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(about sex and slavery and violence), Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Behavior, I say he's an asshole, M/M, Small mentions of the Regent, Some may say Damen is OOC in this</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:22:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,662</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29167011</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>To stop the war between their countries, King Theomedes and King Auguste reach an agreement. After all, they both have a prince in their households to spare.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>(unrequited), Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince), Kastor/Laurent (Captive Prince)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>70</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ksanne/gifts">Ksanne</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a very self-indulgent fic. It's not supposed to be read as a character study of any kind. </p>
<p>Kass, I've been wanting to gift you something for a while, but nothing seemed right enough. I decided to post this because if I keep on trying to find the perfect fic to gift you I'll just be waiting forever. You've been an awesome friend, and I hope this little ficlet makes a bleak week better. </p>
<p>
  <a href="https://ancelegance.tumblr.com/post/639321272553291776/kastor-and-laurent-princes-of-ios-say-the-most">Check out the art that inspired this fic! </a>
</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kastor is rougher than his brother.</p>
<p>Laurent learns this quickly, just from watching the two of them spar. Kastor aims for Damianos' ankles, his exposed shoulders. When his blade almost slices Damianos' calf open, Laurent realizes victory isn't what Kastor is after.</p>
<p>Auguste catches Laurent staring, says, "He fights well."</p>
<p>Laurent doesn't ask which brother he's talking about.</p>
<p>Damianos knocks the sword off of Kastor's hand. It falls to the ground with a loud thud, sawdust rising from it like smoke. Around them, the small arena grows quiet and somehow shrinks. It's as though everyone watching is holding their breath, waiting for something to happen, for the bone to break or the blood to flow.</p>
<p>Kastor looks at Damianos' hand for a second before grasping it. His face is carefully blank as Damianos pats him on the back.</p>
<p>"And he isn't prideful," Auguste says.</p>
<p>There is no point in taking this relief away from Auguste, and so Laurent says nothing.</p>
<p>Later that day, Uncle pats Kastor's back twice. Auguste's smile is wide and honest. <em>See</em>, it seems to say, <em>be glad this man will be your husband.</em></p>
<p>Laurent forces himself to smile back.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Their courtship lasts thirty-two days. Laurent is a second son and Kastor is a bastard; there isn't any need for sumptuosity.</p>
<p>Each morning, Laurent opens the door to his rooms to discover a new gift, left there by some servant or slave Kastor sent before dawn broke. The first present is a bouquet of white flowers so big Laurent needs help carrying it inside his room. The second and the third are jewelry, then clothes. Laurent pays no attention to the gifts that follow, not even bothering to look into the packages they come into. He knows they aren't being hand-picked by Kastor, and that knowledge keeps away all his guilt.</p>
<p>The last morning of their month-long courtship, Laurent wakes up to what is supposed to be the ultimate gift: Kastor, standing outside his bedroom door with a wreath of papery-thin, golden leaves in his hands. Laurent lets Kastor put it on his head.</p>
<p>It's bitterly symbolic. Neither of them will ever be crowned.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In Ios, with only a white cliff to stare at, Laurent is given away by Auguste. Uncle was supposed to do it, but Auguste insisted. He kisses both of Laurent's cheeks, holds his hand so tight it hurts, and Laurent…</p>
<p>Laurent lets him.</p>
<p>"I'll visit soon," Auguste whispers into Laurent's ear. Then, happy, "He's a good man."</p>
<p>"Yes," is all Laurent says back. He says it again when he's asked to confirm that he's here, in this stiflingly hot province in the south of Akielos, to marry King Theomedes' firstborn son.</p>
<p>There is no kiss to seal the alliance. No tender embrace or hand-holding. There are only Kastor's emotionless face and a hundred eyes that watch them both from a hundred different angles.</p>
<p>It's a relief, in a way, that Veretian traditions have not followed them here, for Laurent can't think of anything more humiliating than a public consummation under this unforgiving sun. There are no shadows to hide into, no darkness to keep things vague.</p>
<p>Sitting beside Laurent, Kastor drinks steadily throughout the whole feast. His goblet never touches the wooden table, and it never empties. The snap of Kastor's fingers makes sure of that.</p>
<p>Laurent looks around, desperate to find someone to talk to. Auguste is sitting close by, but Prince Damianos holds all his attention. Uncle isn't even looking in his direction. Laurent’s Akielon isn’t good enough yet to maintain a fluent conversation, so everyone else at the table is off-limits.</p>
<p>When the Kyros of Mellos asks Kastor to go riding with him later, Laurent expects Kastor to refuse.</p>
<p>That morning the slaves in Kastor's household helped Laurent bathe and prepare for what was to follow later, in their bed. He supposes <em>that</em> is the only part of this agreement Kastor is looking forward to, and so Laurent is surprised when Kastor takes the kyros up on his offer, delaying everything else.</p>
<p>They leave before the feast is over, as Laurent watches sullenly. Not even King Theomedes' disapproving stare makes Kastor hesitate.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>That night, Laurent waits for Kastor in his—<em>their</em>—bed, limbs carefully arranged so as to appear desirable. Despite what everyone else might think, despite what Uncle has always said, Laurent does know the importance of surrender.</p>
<p>Time passes. Laurent falls asleep before Kastor comes back, forcing himself to hold his position even in his dreams, always hoping, hoping, hoping.</p>
<p>The other side of the bed is still empty when he opens his eyes in the morning. Despite the warm sunlight coming through the open windows, Laurent feels bitterly cold.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He doesn’t cry when Auguste and Uncle leave. There’s a part of him that knows that if he starts he won’t be able to stop, and so it’s best for everyone involved if he keeps his composure.</p>
<p>Kastor holds his arm, as is customary. His grip is strong, fingers softly digging into the flesh of Laurent’s wrist, and it only grows tighter as the minutes pass by.</p>
<p>“Brother,” Auguste says. He’s not talking to Laurent.</p>
<p>It takes Kastor a moment to answer. “Brother,” he says, slowly, like he is not used to saying the word.</p>
<p>They shake hands. It looks awkward, for Kastor’s right hand is still wrapped around Laurent’s arm, but neither of them complains. It lasts a minute too long, Auguste holding on to Kastor’s fingers in a silent warning.</p>
<p>And then it’s over as if it never really happened.</p>
<p>Kastor doesn’t move away from Laurent’s side until the Veretian party has gone through the palace gates. He keeps his gaze on the gardens and, denying Laurent his face, says, “You are to sleep in your own chambers from now on.”</p>
<p>“My own chambers,” Laurent says. His Akielon is fractured, child-like, but Kastor refuses to speak Veretian. “I thought we—”</p>
<p>“You thought wrong,” Kastor says. “I’ll have company tonight.”</p>
<p>Laurent doesn’t know what he wants to say to that, so he stays silent.</p>
<p>Kastor lets go of him completely, creating a neat line between their bodies that Laurent does not dare cross.</p>
<p>Now that his arm is free, Laurent clasps his hands behind his back. He’s learned, by watching the slaves, that this is the safest posture, for it prevents one from reaching out to touch. It keeps one from yearning.</p>
<p>Here, Laurent is even less than a slave.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He meets Erasmus later that day, on his way to the library. Unsurprisingly, it seems that the members of the royal family care little about reading. They keep a small and private library in the palace with the only purpose of dazzling foreign visitors, and Laurent misses reading so much he doesn’t care that every book is in Akielon.</p>
<p>Laurent keeps his eyes on the floor, counting the tiles, and trying to avoid the cracks. He wonders what Auguste is doing and if Uncle has found the little gifts Laurent left for him. He thinks of the sweetmeats he’s missing out on and the stench of perfumed baths he’d always thought he hated. He thinks—</p>
<p>Someone walks into him.</p>
<p>The man is on his knees before Laurent can even open his mouth to complain. His forehead touches the floor twice, Akielon words Laurent doesn't know spilling from his lips like a prayer. <em>Please</em>, Laurent recognizes after a while, and <em>slave</em>.</p>
<p>"Rise," he says in Veretian and is not understood.</p>
<p>Frustrated, Laurent puts his hand on the man's head, cradling the top of it. His hair is a dirty shade of blonde, like burnt wheat. His eyes are very wide.</p>
<p>"What's your name?"</p>
<p>The slave just stares at him.</p>
<p>"Naming," Laurent says in Akielon. He can't remember what the noun is.</p>
<p>"Erasmus," the slave says.</p>
<p>Laurent helps Erasmus to his feet. It's awkward and stilted and Laurent can't even ask the questions he wants, which turns out to be more frustrating than he could ever have predicted. At least in Vere, no matter how bad everything was, he could still communicate freely.</p>
<p>After a long time of staring and mouthing and saying the wrong thing, Laurent finally manages to ask him what kind of slave he is. Later, when he thinks about that moment, he'll realize the stupidity of his question. Erasmus is too beautiful to attend tables.</p>
<p>"The prince's," Erasmus says, as if that somehow explains it all. Scarily enough, it does.</p>
<p><em>I'm the other prince's</em>, Laurent thinks of saying. In the end, he ends up asking Erasmus to walk him to the library instead. It’s clear Erasmus follows him without understanding his words, stupid as a lamb being lead to slaughter.</p>
<p>Once they’ve reached the library door, Laurent turns to Erasmus and asks him if Kastor keeps slaves too. Something like apprehension flickers in Erasmus’ expression when Laurent presses him for names.</p>
<p>“Kallias,” Erasmus says.</p>
<p>Laurent knows that name, knows what it means. It makes his blood boil.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Kastor is lying on his back, sprawled in a mess of rumpled sheets, and he does not flinch when Laurent slams the door open. The slave fucking himself on Kastor’s cock does not flinch either.</p>
<p>“Get out,” Laurent says in perfect Akielon. He’s been practicing the words all evening, murmuring them while he read in the library and then later as he ate dinner. His accent is impeccable. “Now, Kallias.”</p>
<p>Kallias stops for a second. He twists his body a bit so he can look at Kastor’s face, but as soon as Kastor shakes his head, he goes back to his task.</p>
<p><em>Shame is the best teacher</em>, Uncle had always told Laurent. But Laurent doesn’t think he’s ever felt a shame like this before in his life, so hot it leaves him aching, feverish. The inside of his mouth tastes like dirty steel.</p>
<p>They have both understood him, that much is clear. And yet Kastor’s command matters more than Laurent’s.</p>
<p>Head-whirring, Laurent stomps his way to one of the chairs in the room and drags it as close to the bed as he can. Then, he sits down on it, locking eyes with Kastor, daring him to complain, to send him away, to say anything.</p>
<p>Kastor ignores him. He squeezes Kallias’ hip twice. Two seconds later, Kallias is riding him more furiously, the strain of it visible to Laurent—sweat-covered skin, muscles pulsing, a slight blush.</p>
<p>From where he’s seated, Laurent can only get glimpses of Kastor’s cock. It disappears into Kallias’ body far too fast for Laurent to even get a proper look, which should not feel disappointing but, stubbornly, does.</p>
<p>The pet rings in Arles are not like this. Laurent wonders if anything anywhere in the world is like this.</p>
<p>Kastor says something. Kallias lowers himself one last time, and stays there, full of Kastor’s cock. It takes Laurent a second too long to realize what’s happened, and by the time he does, it’s too late to mask his reaction.</p>
<p>A violent and pulsing blush spreads across Laurent’s cheeks as Kallias pushes himself up, white dribbling down his thighs. The slave’s face is blank, respectful. He only moves away from the bed when Kastor commands it.</p>
<p>Because Kastor has covered himself with the sheets, Laurent watches Kallias get dressed instead. His chiton, like Erasmus’, is shorter than the ones other slaves around the palace wear. The white cotton is unadorned except for the golden pin at his right shoulder that says, to everyone that crosses paths with him, that he is Kastor’s.</p>
<p>Once in his clothes, Kallias stands by the bed and bows twice, his eyes half-closed, until Kastor says, “Leave us.”</p>
<p>The door closes shut behind him. Laurent can’t help but look for drops of white on the marble floor.</p>
<p>Very slowly, as if talking to an idiot, Kastor says, “I told you I would have company tonight.”</p>
<p>Laurent sinks his nails into the cushioned arms of the chair he’s sitting on. In Veretian: “What do you need slaves for? We’re married.”</p>
<p>“Do you fuck like a slave?”</p>
<p>“No, but I—”</p>
<p>“Have you ever been fucked?”</p>
<p>Laurent stills. He does not know what his own face is doing. “Slaves have their First Night with their masters. They haven’t been fucked by anyone else when they crawl into your bed, so what does it matter to you if I’m—if I haven’t—”</p>
<p>Kastor laughs. Then, he throws his arm over his eyes, yawning. His words are drawled out, slurred with morosity. No Akielon man Laurent has met has ever dared to speak to him like this.</p>
<p>“They’ve been trained,” he says. A moment passes, during which Laurent doesn’t know where to set his eyes, and then Kastor adds, “Leave. I don’t like repeating myself.”</p>
<p>Laurent thinks of arguing but doesn’t. He doesn’t know what he’d say if Kastor asked him any more questions.</p>
<p>A thought starts to bloom in Laurent as he closes the door to Kastor’s rooms and steps into the empty hallway. Training. It can be taught, then. It can be learned.</p>
<p>And what is Laurent if not a great student?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Erasmus’ whole face is red. He can’t seem to meet Laurent’s eye, but he hasn’t tried to run away yet, which is a good sign. Laurent dragged him away from his daily tasks without a word and brought him to the most secluded place he could find in the palace: an open but deserted gallery by the gardens.</p>
<p>It’s been sixteen days since Laurent walked in on Kastor and Kallias. Every day for a fortnight, Laurent has done little but study Akielon. He goes to sleep with a song on his lips, repeating it like a prayer, trying to get the pronunciation right. In his empty bed, no one asks him to be quiet.</p>
<p>“I want you to teach me,” Laurent says, “what they’ve taught you.”</p>
<p>Erasmus looks nervous, but he doesn’t bite his lip or tear at the skin around his fingernails. Laurent can’t help but wonder if maybe that’s part of his training, too. “Teach?” he asks, softly.</p>
<p>“Yes. I want to be like—<em>better</em> than any other slave. I want you to teach me how to please.”</p>
<p>Erasmus blushes harder. “This slave couldn’t possibly—”</p>
<p>Laurent clicks his tongue, trying to summon the little speech he prepared for this moment. “If you refuse to help me, I’ll have Kallias sent away.” <em>Or worse</em>, he thinks of saying, but doesn’t know how to in Akielon. “Do you understand?”</p>
<p>The blush is gone from Erasmus’ face. He looks very pale, his skin so taut it reminds Laurent of the blank tapestries in Auguste’s rooms. Erasmus nods.</p>
<p>“Prince Damianos likes you,” Laurent says into the silence. “That means you must be skilled in bed.”</p>
<p>Erasmus clearly doesn’t know what to do with the compliment. He stands there, like the bovine idiot he is, and says nothing.</p>
<p>Laurent watches him. He’s pretty, obviously hand-picked, unique enough to draw any wandering eye. He isn’t really blond, his hair most likely light brown when left to grow unattended, without the trick of chamomile tea Laurent knows so well. His skin is unblemished, with no freckles or moles or scars.</p>
<p>But Laurent is prettier, and blonder, and fairer.</p>
<p>“Show me how you’d lead Prince Damianos to bed.”</p>
<p>In a low, breathy voice, Erasmus says the verb back at him with enough incredulity to make Laurent feel stupid. It’s as though he can’t believe any man needs to be led.</p>
<p>They practice for an hour each morning after breakfast. It’s enough time for Laurent to learn the basics of each position, the bare minimum of each passed-down lesson, but not enough that anyone would notice either his or Erasmus’ absence.</p>
<p>As it turns out, Erasmus is not only a good slave. He’s a surprisingly good teacher—patient, kind, brimming with praise—and it’s not long before Laurent’s initial disgust melts away, leaving behind what he can only describe as a lack of animosity.</p>
<p>Laurent practices every night for hours, until his muscles ache and he has to soak in cold water to stop the trembling of his thighs and the pain in his joints. He’d thought it’d be easy, that it would come to him naturally, but he should have known better.</p>
<p>Slowly, painfully, progress is made. He stops sweating as much when he’s on his knees with Erasmus. At night, it’s hours before the fire in his legs becomes unbearable. He doesn’t choke around the wooden cock he bribed a slave into getting for him. He doesn’t blush as easily, either.</p>
<p>A month passes like this. The heat turns from irritating to smothering, days and nights so hot Laurent ends up sleeping naked and still manages to wake up to moist sheets.</p>
<p>Kastor avoids him. He eats breakfast in his rooms, attends meetings with his brother, and never seems to have a second to spare for Laurent. In the evenings, he either trains or fucks Kallias. Or Isander, depending on his mood.</p>
<p>The first night of the full harvest moon, exactly two months since he arrived at Akielos, Laurent decides he’s practiced long enough.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Clean, perfumed, and armed with a vial of oil, Laurent sneaks into Kastor’s rooms.</p>
<p>He uses the time he has left before Kastor returns from his training very carefully. Everything about it feels ritualistic: the shedding of his clothes, the spreading of his legs, the arching of his back.</p>
<p>The pillow he’s buried his face in smells like wood and sweat, a strange combination Laurent can’t say he finds unpleasant. It is certainly better than the scented oils Kallias dabs on his wrists and ankles, or the chamomile scent Erasmus drags around with him.</p>
<p>Kastor walks in when Laurent has just begun to drift off. He pauses at the door, then quietly closes it. For a second, embarrassed and angry, Laurent thinks he’s left. And then he hears the footsteps growing louder as Kastor approaches the bed.</p>
<p>Laurent keeps his eyes closed against the pillow. His heart is beating so hard inside his chest it feels like the loudest sound in the room.</p>
<p>The footsteps stop. Kastor’s breathing is relaxed, soft. It makes Laurent angry, for that is not the reaction he’d been expecting to cause.</p>
<p>Something is thrown at him. Laurent doesn’t need to look to know it’s the chiton he left folded on the edge of the bed.</p>
<p>“Get dressed,” Kastor says, “and leave.”</p>
<p>Laurent’s whole face burns. He’s on his feet in less than a second, clothed in two. His eyes feel like they’re on fire, but he somehow manages to postpone crying until he’s out in the hallway. Looking down at himself as he leans against Kastor’s closed door, he realizes he’s put the chiton on backward. That’s the final shove that pushes him over the edge.</p>
<p>Once in his own rooms, Laurent lets it all out. In the process, he breaks most of his wedding gifts—the black ceramic pitcher a man named Makedon gave him, the wooden box with jewels Uncle left behind, the pompous quill Auguste liked so much—and rips the sheets until they look like torn pieces of cloth at a merchant’s shop.</p>
<p>None of it makes him feel better.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Show me a different one,” Laurent says. “I already tried this, and it didn’t work.”</p>
<p>Erasmus is smart enough to keep his face blank. He’s sweet, but the more time Laurent spends with him the easier it is to see what Laurent thought was a mindless submission is actually layered, and complex, and not as close to stupidity as one could have guessed.</p>
<p>Erasmus kneels on the cool marble floor. Instead of leaning forward, back arched and thighs on display, he lies on his back. He holds his knees to his chest for a moment.</p>
<p>Laurent imitates him. Or rather, tries to. He hasn’t mastered the art of making it all look effortless yet, and the stretch of his muscles still makes his movements slow and stilted.</p>
<p>It’s when Laurent is spreading his legs, copying Erasmus, that Prince Damianos walks into the gallery.</p>
<p><em>It could have been worse</em>, Laurent thinks as he sits up. He could have been naked.</p>
<p>Erasmus looks panicked, but his master gives him a brilliant smile that seems to settle him for the time being. In the quiet moment that follows, Damianos looks at Laurent and Erasmus in intervals, eyes focusing especially on their thighs, taking in the blush of their knees.</p>
<p>“Go to my rooms, Erasmus. I’ll be there shortly.”</p>
<p>Dismissed, Erasmus flees the scene, not even bothering to spare a pitying glance at Laurent, who’s left behind without a proper explanation in his dry mouth.</p>
<p>Damianos offers Laurent his hand. Laurent gets up on his own, ignoring him as though he’s just another pillar in the gallery. It’s very easy.</p>
<p>“I have a proposition for you,” Damianos says, in Veretian. He sounds amused. Challenged and challenging. “My brother has been neglecting some of his duties to you, hasn’t he?”</p>
<p>“Is that what he’s told you?”</p>
<p>“No, but it isn’t hard to guess why you’re hiding here with my bed slave.”</p>
<p>Laurent considers his options. He’s never spoken to Damianos before, at least not on his own, but he’s heard enough about him to know they have nothing in common. Auguste had been dazzled by Damianos’ sparring, by his talk of strategy and politics, but Laurent has been watching him closely for weeks now. Damianos is a perfect copy of his father.</p>
<p>And Theomedes is the reason Laurent was forced to marry in the first place.</p>
<p>“If it’s company you’re after,” Damianos says, “then I’d be happy to indulge you.”</p>
<p>“Indulge me.”</p>
<p>“You’ll never learn anything useful like this. Erasmus can teach you—”</p>
<p>“In your bed,” Laurent says. He understands now the acrid side glances Kastor gives Damianos sometimes. “While you watch.”</p>
<p>Damianos’ eyes roam Laurent’s face, studying the reaction there. “With my brother’s permission, of course. I'll make sure you enjoy yourself."</p>
<p>Laurent pretends to consider it. Every second that passes, Damianos seems to grow more confident that Laurent will say yes. Why wouldn’t he? Damianos is probably right, Laurent would learn faster in a bed.</p>
<p>Erasmus looks like a kind lover, but not exactly giving. Laurent sees it unfold in his head, the opposite of a fantasy: Erasmus panting under Laurent, Laurent panting under Damianos.</p>
<p>“No,” Laurent says. “Keep your slave. I’ve learned enough.”</p>
<p>Damianos frowns. He opens his mouth, but before he can get out any words, Laurent sidesteps him and leaves the gallery.</p>
<p>It’s been a while since Laurent has had the privilege to turn down a suitor. He lets himself enjoy it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Kastor comes to him that evening.</p>
<p>Laurent looks up from Auguste’s letter to find him standing in the doorway, silent and solemn. They stare at each other until Laurent offers him a hesitant nod, which Kastor answers by stepping inside and closing the door behind him.</p>
<p>“Are we dining together?” Laurent asks. He hopes that’s what he’s said. Questions are hard to get right in Akielon.</p>
<p>Kastor sits on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t say anything.</p>
<p>Under his stare, Laurent flushes. “If this is about this morning—”</p>
<p>“You rejected him,” Kastor says slowly. “Why?”</p>
<p>There’s an expression on Kastor’s face Laurent has never seen before. All Kastor has done so far around him is frown and look indifferent, but now… Now he looks genuinely curious. Laurent finds the whole matter unnerving.</p>
<p>“Was I not supposed to?”</p>
<p>Kastor’s mouth thins. “You haven’t answered my question.”</p>
<p>“Of course I rejected him,” Laurent says. He’s getting angry, which isn’t good. The language barrier is difficult enough as it is, without Laurent’s frustration getting in the way. “You’re—I—” He stops, breaths in. Then, pitifully: “We’re married.”</p>
<p>Kastor looks away. He’s pressing his thumb into the bedding of Laurent’s bed as though a squirming bug is under it and his only wish is to squish it to death. This is the first time he’s visited Laurent’s rooms and the experience is more than a bit disappointing. Laurent had expected—had hoped rather fervently—that their first time together in the same room, alone, without <em>Kallias</em>, would be… different.</p>
<p>Before Laurent can voice his disappointment, or make a snide comment, or even think about what this conversation means, Kastor rises to his feet and starts to leave. He stops in front of the closed door, hand already curled around the handle like he can’t wait to be out of that room, out of Laurent’s sight.</p>
<p>“We’ll dine together tomorrow,” he says, not turning around. The hair on his nape is curly like it’s never been brushed before. Laurent finds himself staring. “In my rooms.”</p>
<p>He lets the door slam behind him. Loudly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Laurent knocks on Kastor’s door the next night wearing the one chiton he doesn’t despise. It’s longer than is fashionable, the hem reaching his knees, with a loose red belt around his waist. He knows Kastor doesn’t like Veretian clothes, and enduring the humiliation of wearing this skimpy piece of fabric is still better than the humiliation of their still unofficial marriage. <em>Compromise</em>, Auguste would tell him.</p>
<p>When the door finally opens, Laurent’s brain has already supplied him with a hundred different scenarios. Kallias on the bed, <em>again</em>. Kastor and Damianos waiting for him. Kastor with a lash in his hand, looking forward to punishing Laurent for the indiscretion of turning Damianos away.</p>
<p>None of those things happen. In the end, there’s only Kastor behind the door, no lash on sight, no slave or brother to interrupt them.</p>
<p>Laurent thrusts the wine bottle at Kastor, wanting to be rid of it, and sidesteps him to enter the room. He stands there with his hands clasped behind his back as Kastor closes the door.</p>
<p>The bed looks so much bigger without Kallias in it. Childishly, Laurent wishes Kallias was there to see this: the elegant spread of an intimate dinner on Kastor’s wide wooden table, the glow of the lit candles that turn it all a soft shade of orange.</p>
<p>Kastor pours a cup of wine and, instead of offering it to Laurent, takes a sip.</p>
<p>Laurent snorts, biting his tongue just in time before the petty words leave his mouth.</p>
<p>“Yes?” Kastor says, one thick eyebrow raised.</p>
<p>“You didn’t pour me a cup.”</p>
<p>“You don’t drink wine.”</p>
<p>“I—” Laurent looks at him. Sometimes even Auguste forgot about that, and would gleefully pour Laurent wine during feasts. In fact, Laurent’s not sure anyone has noticed it before, let alone cared. “How—”</p>
<p>“At the wedding,” Kastor says, carefully avoiding the use of the word <em>our</em>. “You drank water.”</p>
<p>“Maybe I didn’t feel like drinking wine that day.”</p>
<p>Kastor gives him a long look. Then, shaking his head, he says, “You didn’t drink wine in Vere either.”</p>
<p>Laurent feels his face grow hot. “It’s still rude,” he says, looking at the empty cup on the table. “I’m your guest.”</p>
<p>Now it’s Kastor who snorts. “You’re not a guest here. Pour your own cup.”</p>
<p>Laurent does. It’s cold and leaves his mouth tingling. There are lemon wedges at the bottom of the pitcher.</p>
<p>They stand next to each other, drinking in silence. It should feel uncomfortable, but Laurent is too pleased to care about anything. He’s won something, some small battle, or else Kastor wouldn’t have summoned him to his rooms. Laurent has done something very, very right.</p>
<p>“Your Akielon is better,” Kastor says as he sits down. In his hand, the goblet looks smaller than it did on the table. “Have you been practicing?”</p>
<p>“What other option do I have?”</p>
<p>Kastor gives him a long look but doesn’t say anything.</p>
<p>“You speak Veretian,” Laurent goes on. He wonders if he should sit or stand or lie down on the bed. “It’d be easier if you simply—”</p>
<p>“We’re not in Vere.”</p>
<p>“I know that.”</p>
<p>“Then why are you asking me to speak Veretian? You’re Akielon now. I won’t be doing you any favors if I coddle you like a child.”</p>
<p>Laurent huffs at that. <em>As if you’d be capable of coddling</em>, he thinks. “Prince Damianos always speaks to me in my language.”</p>
<p>Kastor smiles. It’s wry and twisted. “Does he? I wonder why.”</p>
<p>They eat in silence. Or rather, Kastor eats while Laurent lifts pieces of food to his mouth and nibbles at them, putting them down after a small bite or two. He isn’t hungry, his stomach a tight knot that only tightens as the seconds go by. He glances at the bed when he thinks Kastor isn’t looking and wonders if the sheets are anything like the ones on his bed.</p>
<p>Once Kastor has finished his meal, he stretches in his chair, muscles tensing and twisting and relaxing. There’s still wine in his cup, and Kastor doesn’t seem to be in any rush to finish it.</p>
<p>Laurent says, “This table is hideous.”</p>
<p>Just as casually, Kastor says, “Is it?”</p>
<p>“Yes. It’s too small and the color of the wood is horrible. One would think a prince should have—” Laurent stops. He doesn’t know why, but the sudden interest that has started to bloom on Kastor’s face scares him. Tilting his head to avoid Kastor’s eyes, Laurent adds, “Forgive me.”</p>
<p>Kastor laughs. It’s a quiet huff, deep and unlike all the snorts Laurent has heard from him. Laurent decides he likes it.</p>
<p>“Damianos gifted it to me.”</p>
<p>Laurent’s cheeks throb with heat. “I didn’t mean—”</p>
<p>“I think you did,” Kastor says, and when Laurent turns to look at him he doesn’t find him frowning, which is a surprise. Instead, he’s running his thumbs along the edge of the table with a pensive look on his face. “It truly is hideous.”</p>
<p>Laurent relaxes. He forgot himself for a second, but it won’t happen again. He knows this isn’t Vere, and no matter what Kastor says, Laurent isn’t Akielon. He barely speaks the language, knows only enough about the culture to detest it, and his status here is merely symbolic. It won’t do to upset the only person who’s obliged to like Laurent.</p>
<p>“He has terrible taste.”</p>
<p>“Not when it comes to slaves,” Laurent says, again without thinking. “Or wives.”</p>
<p>Kastor tenses. He covers it up well enough, but Laurent’s gaze is sharp. “I agree. He and Jokaste are quite a match.”</p>
<p>The words hang heavy between them, threatening to drag them down.</p>
<p>“And us?” Laurent says. “Are we a good match?”</p>
<p>Kastor doesn’t answer.</p>
<p>Laurent rises from his chair. Kastor’s eyes are on him immediately, curious and amused. With each step Laurent takes towards him, Kastor’s right eyebrow only rises more. It’s a small, quiet gesture, but when Kastor spreads his knees to allow Laurent to stand between them it feels like something a lot bigger. It feels like whatever cold, icy wall had separated them is now gone, thawed.</p>
<p>Laurent reaches out to him, slowly because he’s sure any moment now Kastor will pull away. But Kastor stays still, even when Laurent’s fingers tangle in his hair, his touch so faint it’s easy to ignore.</p>
<p>“What are you doing?” Kastor says, calm and almost soft. Or, at least, the softest he’s spoken to Laurent so far.</p>
<p>“We’re married.”</p>
<p>Kastor gives him a small smile, cat-like. “I’m aware.”</p>
<p>“In a marriage,” Laurent says, “there are certain obligations.”</p>
<p>“Such as?”</p>
<p>Laurent looks him in the eyes. In his best Akielon, he says, “Fucking.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t neglected that aspect of my life,” Kastor says. “In case you haven’t noticed, Kallias is more than happy to keep me company.”</p>
<p>“I meant us,” Laurent says. “You won’t even share a bed with me, or eat with me, or talk to me. How is that fair?”</p>
<p>“We just ate together. And now we’re talking.”</p>
<p>Laurent stomps on the urge to tug at Kastor’s hair. Hard. He keeps playing with the curls at Kastor’s nape instead, enjoying the way they feel between his fingers. “Why did you invite me here tonight?”</p>
<p>Kastor’s hands fold over Laurent’s hips. His thumbs press into the bones there, not roughly at all, and Laurent leans into the touch, starved for it.</p>
<p>“I was bored,” Kastor says.</p>
<p>“Liar.”</p>
<p>“If you already know the answer to your own questions, why ask them?”</p>
<p>Laurent leans in very slowly. His heart doesn’t beat wildly inside his chest, but instead goes rigidly quiet. When he draws in a deep breath through his nose, Laurent can smell the scented oils Kallias wears and the milky soap that is Kastor’s favorite. It’s a good combination.</p>
<p>“You want me,” Laurent says, one inch away from Kastor’s mouth. He tries to sound confident and sure, but there’s only so much arrogance he can muster. If his words are true, then Kastor has certainly been subtle about his affections. “I think you really, really want me.”</p>
<p>Kastor’s grip on his hips grows tighter, bruising. And then it’s gone. “It’s late. You should go back to your rooms.”</p>
<p><em>No</em>, Laurent thinks frantically, <em>no, no, no.</em> This can’t be happening again, not when things between them had finally started to go well, not when Laurent was so close to having their marriage consummated.</p>
<p>Laurent locks his arms around Kastor’s neck and holds on, the picture of begging. It’s illusory, for Kastor could easily pry Laurent’s hands off of him. He’s twice Laurent’s size, almost twice his age. Laurent might as well be a fly Kastor is indulging before stepping on it.</p>
<p>“I’m better than Kallias,” Laurent says. Petty, he’ll admit, but necessary. “I know I am. If you would just—”</p>
<p>“What? Fuck you? Let you sleep in my bed? Those things are earned.”</p>
<p>“Damianos did not need me to earn anything.”</p>
<p>Kastor’s face blanks out. He says, “Then go to him tonight, as an early crowning present. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to have you.”</p>
<p>With detached ease, Kastor untangles Laurent from him. The movement is swift, followed by the loud calling of his guards. He keeps his face angled away, not even bothering to see the quiet spectacle that follows.</p>
<p>As one of Kastor’s men comes into the room to half-drag, half-escort Laurent away, there’s one moment of clarity in Laurent’s mind, like a lightning strike in a dark, bottomless hole.</p>
<p>That wasn’t exactly a refusal.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Check out the art that inspired this fic. <a href="https://ancelegance.tumblr.com/post/639321272553291776/kastor-and-laurent-princes-of-ios-say-the-most">Kastor on his knees for Laurent by Kass.</a></p><p>TW: Groping (non-con).</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>A nameless slave knocks on Laurent’s door the next morning just as the sun is beginning to rise. Young but not overly pretty, he’s so obviously not a bed slave Laurent can't control his own smile. His chiton looks worn, the hem of it undone, and there’s no golden pin at his shoulder.</p><p>Kastor hasn’t touched this one.</p><p>“Prince Kastor has left for Aegina,” the slave says, eyes on Laurent’s bare feet. “He asks that you accept this.”</p><p>Laurent takes the envelope and closes the door after the slave bows his retreat. Leaning against the wood, Laurent runs his fingers over the edges of the paper and dithers. </p><p>At fourteen, he’d found a secret pleasure in reading and discarding the little love notes he received. One summer before his brother's ascension, he’d memorized a poem by the Prince of Patras, just to watch him squirm as Laurent recited it during dinner.</p><p>But Kastor’s letter lacks all the warmth and hopefulness of a new lover. The paper hasn’t been perfumed, the seal hasn’t been properly left to dry, and the handwriting is stiff and far too easy to read. Laurent stares at the single word written there and hates it, hates the imperative tone it carries, hates Kastor for leaving and Auguste for not picking bloodshed over the loss of his only brother. </p><p>
  <em> Behave.</em>
</p><p>Laurent closes his fingers around the note. Not even half a day has passed and he already feels like disobeying.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The rising sun creeps into the open gallery Laurent used to spend his mornings in. It paints the ivy that grows on the pillars golden and blinds Laurent when he tips his head back to stare at the sky.</p><p>It's quiet there, and lonely. Laurent tells himself he likes the marble chamber better this way, without Erasmus breathy hums and indications, without the exciting danger of being seen. Some days he manages to believe it.</p><p>It doesn’t take long for Erasmus to come to him, his head ducked and his cheeks red like he’s been slapped. He looks remorseful and ashamed in a way that can only be feigned.</p><p>Laurent knows why he’s there, lurking behind one of the pillars, a well-trained dog that has never learned how to bite. If Laurent’s Akielon was good enough, he’d tell Erasmus exactly what he’ll do to him and Kallias when the time comes. </p><p>Instead, feeling rather merciful, Laurent reads the morning away.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>After days of staring, Erasmus finally approaches him, all shuffling feet and wringing hands.</p><p>“What,” Laurent says, pressing his index finger to the page, “do you want?”</p><p>Erasmus’ voice, when it comes through, is wet and wobbly. “This slave apologizes for—”</p><p>“I don’t want to hear it.”</p><p>The sound Erasmus’ mouth makes when it closes turns Laurent unexpectedly happy. Without a word, they both go back to their previous activities: Laurent resumes his reading while Erasmus lingers by his side. </p><p>A line away from the ending of the page, Laurent looks up from his book. He likes the way Erasmus shrinks under his gaze. He likes it a little too much.</p><p>“I take it you have been commanded to seek my company.”</p><p>Erasmus' head moves, a cross between a jerk and a nod. </p><p>"At what cost?" Laurent says. "I told your master already I have no interest in crawling into his bed."</p><p>"Prince Damianos hasn't forgotten. He says it was uncouth of him to suggest…" Erasmus hesitates. "But as an apology, he asks that the lessons continue."</p><p>Laurent closes his book. A gust of wind enters the gallery and ruffles the skirt of Erasmus' too-short chiton, revealing dark pink marks on his thighs. They don't quite look like handprints, and Laurent has witnessed enough whippings to know the kind of damage a lash can leave on smooth skin.</p><p>A paddle, then. </p><p>"He won't need to watch," Laurent says, "for you'll tell him all about our time together. Is that the offer he's making?"</p><p>Again, Erasmus' blush speaks for him. Laurent wonders if he'll blush as much with his hands around Damianos' cock, moving up and down, his mouth opening to narrate every lesson, to recount every crease and nook of Laurent's body.</p><p>But Laurent has no use for him. It's been months of arduous work, of stretching and gagging and spreading himself open, all for nothing. Whatever tricks Erasmus can teach him have not been enough to impress Kastor.</p><p>Except for his refusal of Damianos, nothing Laurent has done since his wedding has stirred a reaction in his husband. And this time, Kastor is not here to reward him for his loyalty.</p><p>On his feet, Laurent regards Erasmus for another moment. He'll recover, Laurent thinks, from whatever punishment Damianos deems him worthy of. He's too young not to, too pretty to be wasted. Youth and beauty have their advantages.</p><p>"Tell your master he's not king yet," Laurent says. "I'd only crawl for him if his father commanded it."</p><p>And even then… There are ways to avoid the utter loss of one’s dignity. A drop or two of something dark in his water, a sharp piece of glass to cut him from the inside out, a fall down a high cliff. There are ways.</p><p>Erasmus offers him another nod. Laurent sidesteps him the way one would sidestep a leper and considers the matter settled.</p><p>He soon discovers it is not.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The day before Kastor’s return, Laurent sneaks into the slaves’ rooms.</p><p>They’re nicer than the sad chambers Laurent had imagined for them. The walls are a soothing shade of cream, the furniture simple but well-made. Rows of beds fill the entire space, but they’re clean and soft-looking and Laurent finds himself thinking maybe they shouldn’t be.</p><p>Isander is on the floor, playing dices with one of Theomedes’ boys. Three of the beds are occupied, as well as two chairs at the table which is pushed against the far west wall. Erasmus draws Laurent’s eye like a beacon, all blonde hair and purple chiton. He’s come straight from the celebrations, a tiny apple in each hand, and Laurent knows this because he followed him here.</p><p>Kallias sees him first. His hand leaves Erasmus’ hair instantly, as though his speed can somehow make Laurent doubt that he saw the soft caress, as though Laurent won’t use it against him. </p><p>Frowning, Erasmus lifts his head off Kallias’ lap.</p><p>“Kallias,” Laurent says. His voice carries, echoing, and he sees Isander flinch out of the corner of his eye. “Come.”</p><p>Once in the hallway, Laurent leans against the stone wall and waits. He doesn’t need to take steadying breaths or clasp his hands so they’ll stop shaking. Last night he lay awake in his empty bed, reciting to himself the words, trying to imagine Kallias’ face and response. There’s beauty in control, Uncle would say.</p><p>Kallias emerges from the room, head bowed and silent. He’s a fiery thing; Erasmus would be on his knees already.</p><p>“You’ll serve me tonight,” Laurent says. “Be in my rooms as soon as dinner is over.”</p><p>Silence. And then, struggled, as though Kallias can’t keep the words contained: “Prince Kastor is in Aegina.”</p><p>“I know. As I said, you’ll serve <em> me </em>. Unless you’d rather spend the night under Adastrus’ lash.”</p><p><em> I’ve heard it would not be your first time there,</em> Laurent thinks of saying, and doesn’t. He knows it is not true. Not all of it.</p><p>Kallias doesn’t argue. Laurent can see that he wants to, something in the slight tremble of his hands, in the way his cheeks sink in like he’s biting them. But in the end, Kallias says nothing, exactly as Laurent expected him to.</p><p>That night Laurent drinks two fingers of mead with his meal. It doesn’t soothe his nerves, but he likes the way it warms him up from the inside out. His throat doesn’t feel as tight by the time he’s done eating. He dabs twice at the corner of his mouth with the napkin to his right and then stands, enjoying the faint heat from the alcohol in his stomach.</p><p>Damianos does not notice him leaving. A friend from the north has come to visit him, someone Theomedes has been thinking of crowning Kyros of Delpha, and they’ve been deep in conversation for hours. Laurent thinks as far as men go, both are terribly uninteresting.</p><p>The sight of Kallias kneeling by his bed is dazzling. He’s wearing a chiton Laurent has never seen on him before, one with a flower pattern sewn into the hem. He does not look up when Laurent approaches him.</p><p>“Rise,” Laurent says, not missing the way Kallias tenses. It’s amusing to watch. “Did you think I’d make you suck my cock?”</p><p>On his feet, Kallias is taller than Laurent. He doesn’t reply to Laurent’s jab, doesn’t lift his gaze off the tiles, doesn’t apologize for his assumptions. Laurent likes that about him.</p><p>It’s easy to sit on his bed and make Kallias wait for the imminent blow he came here to receive. It scares Laurent how much he enjoys it, this awkward silence and the way Kallias’ cheeks drain of their peach-colored blush.</p><p>“How long have you been his?”</p><p>The question does not surprise Kallias. He lacks Erasmus’ bashful nature, too. “Two summers,” he says slowly. “The Prince had this slave while Akielos was still at war.”</p><p>Two summers past, Laurent had stood by Auguste as Mother disappeared into the earth. Uncle had been there too, by Father’s side. It was the last time they were together in the same room. </p><p>War has a way of untangling families.</p><p>“So you know him well,” Laurent says, and hates that it’s true. “Tell me about his tastes.”</p><p>“Prince Kastor has forbidden it.”</p><p><em> I was a prince once. Did you know? </em> Instead, “He’s not in the room with us, is he? I don’t see the problem.”</p><p>“He—”</p><p>“He won’t know,” Laurent says, “unless you tell him. I certainly won’t.”</p><p>Kallias’ mouth twitches. Can he feel how tight Laurent’s hold of him is? Still, he struggles against it. “It’s forbidden.”</p><p>“Plenty of things are forbidden here, yet you dare do them anyway.”</p><p>“This slave—”</p><p>Laurent does not have the patience for this. “You were not trained to lie with other slaves. Neither was Erasmus.” He pauses. In his head, Laurent sees the tender way Kallias was playing with Erasmus’ hair earlier. What does it say about him, that he’s envious of a slave? “I can send him away.”</p><p>For the first time since the conversation started, Kallias lifts his gaze to meet Laurent’s. “He’s Prince Damianos’.”</p><p>“And Prince Damianos is rather fond of me. Who do you think would win in a fight for his affections?”</p><p>It’s a stretch, a gamble, to say those things. Damianos certainly knows the difference between a bed slave and a former prince. But perhaps that is why he wants Laurent, why he stares at him from across the room with the impunity only his title can give him. There’s a certain pleasure in ruining new, gleaming things. Especially when they belong to one’s brother.</p><p>“There are slaves who’ll do anything for a piece of gold,” Laurent goes on. He does not know if what he’s saying is true, but he imagines it to be so. He wants Kallias to imagine it too. “A shove down the stairs is worth even less.”</p><p>Kallias knows Erasmus’ body better than Laurent does. Laurent does not see the need to remind him of Erasmus’ slender wrists, of his thin legs and wiry arms. Of what would happen if he cut himself open on the marble steps.</p><p>“Oil,” Kallias says suddenly. His black curls try to hide his face, but he pushes them away, meeting Laurent’s eyes once more. “He likes oil. And to be—to put things inside.”</p><p>Laurent wants to frown and doesn’t. “Things?”</p><p>“The handle of his whip. Bottles, sometimes.”</p><p>“What else?” Laurent says. He should not have drunk mead.</p><p>There’s a moment of quiet between them, carefully measured. Laurent wants to know these things, has asked for them, and yet he still finds comfort in Kallias’ silence. He allows it to stretch on and on until it’s ready to burst.</p><p>“Does he ever pin you under him?”</p><p>Kallias’ perfect forehead wrinkles. “Under him?”</p><p>“You were straddling him,” Laurent says, “the day I watched you together. Is that how he prefers it?”</p><p>“No.” A pause, less hesitant than before. Shorter, too. “That was—unusual. He was tired from sparring.”</p><p>“The first time he took you. Describe it to me.”</p><p>Kallias closes his eyes. He has long eyelashes, the thickest and blackest Laurent has ever seen. It makes him wonder if perhaps it hurts Kallias to keep his eyes open, those curled frames weighing down on his lids.</p><p>As Kallias opens his mouth, Laurent lies down on the bed. And listens.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p><em> Be polite,</em> Uncle writes to him just before the apricot season ends. </p><p>In his last letter to Auguste, Laurent vaguely mentioned that Prince Damianos was being difficult, knowing well enough that Auguste would never pick up on the subtlety of his complaint. His brother, although kind, has never been observant enough. It’s something Laurent has learned not to resent, even if it has cost him greatly.</p><p>But Laurent should have known better. All of Auguste’s correspondence goes through Uncle first, from kings' and princes' to minor lords'. Why would Laurent’s meager letters be any different? </p><p>Uncle doesn’t answer any of Laurent’s questions regarding Vere. Laurent doesn’t rush to write him another letter, demanding and begging and questioning him further. There is no point in doing so, for Laurent is no longer a prince. To Vere, he’s nothing more than a piece of land conceded, a trade route bargained in the peace treaty.</p><p><em> Prince Damianos will be king, </em> Uncle writes. The message is clear: it won’t do to upset the man who will one day be in charge of Laurent’s life. And Kastor’s.</p><p>During breakfast that morning, Laurent forces himself to meet Damianos’ brown gaze across the table. He gives the smallest smile he can manage. In his head, all he sees is Erasmus’ quiet happiness at being praised. If lambs could smile, they’d do it like this. Without any teeth showing, with their heads tilted in a slight bow.</p><p>Damianos smiles back.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>There is no great crowd gathered at the doors to receive Kastor back into the palace. The day of his return is sunny and bright, a perfect spring day, and everyone seems to be busy with other things. Two kyroi from the north are visiting, as well as a woman from Vask that is rumored to be the Empress’ favorite strategist. Damianos and Theomedes spend their days trying to impress them all into signing new treaties.</p><p>Laurent stands by the gates on his own. He knows too well what it is like to come back home expecting applause only to find silence.</p><p>Kastor pulls at his reins when he sees Laurent, forcing his horse into stillness several feet away. They stare at each other, and Laurent doesn’t look away, not even when his neck starts to hurt from the pronounced tilt of his head. At last, Kastor dismounts.</p><p>“Hello,” Laurent says once Kastor is close enough to hear him. The word <em> husband </em> sits heavy on his tongue, but Laurent is not foolish enough to speak it. “I had the slaves prepare a bath for you in case you’d like to soak before eating.”</p><p>Kastor leans against his horse. There is white dust on his beard, sand so thin it’s like powder. He stays very still as Laurent reaches out to thumb it away.</p><p>“Will you eat with me?”</p><p>“After I’ve bathed,” Kastor says. Then, as he already starts to move away, “I’ll meet you in your rooms.”</p><p>Finally, a victory.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Midday finds Laurent at Kastor’s table, drinking water with orange peel in it and eating a type of fish he can’t quite pronounce the name of. It’s cool by the open window, lazy wind gusts swirling around Laurent’s ankles.</p><p>“What is Aegina like?”</p><p>“Dry,” Kastor says, barely looking up from his plate. “Indebted. I’m sure you know this already.”</p><p>Laurent knows. He studied Akielon history for weeks before his wedding, locked in his rooms with his tutor by his side, trying to memorize the name of each grimy piece of land. That Laurent feels a thousand years away from him now.</p><p>“Why did the King send you there?” </p><p>“The Kyros is too old to make the journey to the capital.” Kastor sips his wine. It leaves his lips red. “Have you done as I asked?”</p><p>Laurent stills, then remembers the note from weeks ago, the one he keeps under his pillow. He says, “Yes.”</p><p>“I will know if you haven’t.”</p><p>Kallias won’t speak, and Laurent has been indulgently good these days. There is nothing to punish him for.</p><p>“Tell me more about Aegina,” Laurent says instead, ignoring the low threat in Kastor’s words. “What foods did you eat? Where did you sleep?”</p><p>
  <em> With whom? </em>
</p><p>Kastor’s right eyebrow raises. He does not answer either question, and the kind of silence that begins to fill the room is not one Laurent enjoys. It reminds him of meetings with his brother’s Council and King Theomedes’ advisors. </p><p>“I think—” Laurent pauses. Firmly: “I would like it there.” </p><p>Interest, the genuine kind. “Why?”</p><p>“The Patran border. It’s… I’ve never been to Patras.”</p><p>“I spent a season there,” Kastor says, and then looks surprised, as though he did not mean to reveal so much. “Vaskian hospitality is better. Or so they say.”</p><p>“Tell me about—”</p><p>“It was a long time ago.”</p><p>Laurent frowns. "How long ago?"</p><p>"I was fourteen," Kastor says. "You hadn't been born yet."</p><p>It occurs to Laurent for the first time that he does not know how old Kallias and Isander are. Out of all the bed slaves in the palace, Erasmus looks the youngest. He's boyish in a way that isn't casual, and Laurent wonders if that's what he looks like himself. After all, the only reason why the wedding wasn't celebrated in the winter was that Laurent was yet to be of age.</p><p>Laurent plays with the spread napkin on his lap. "Does that bother you? That I—the years between us, I mean."</p><p>Kastor does not rush to answer. Laurent's question caught him with his cup raised to his lips, and he does not put it down or swallow in a haste to get the words out. The capable span of Kastor's hand around the silver goblet is a sight Laurent can't look away from.</p><p>One of Kastor's fingers is as thick as two of Laurent's. Perhaps three.</p><p>"Age is the least of our differences," Kastor says. </p><p>Laurent waits for him to go on, and when Kastor doesn’t, he says, “I disagree.”</p><p>“Of course you do.”</p><p>“You told me I was Akielon now,” Laurent argues. His tongue twists around the last word, mispronouncing it, and Kastor gives him a mocking smile. “What sets us apart other than the years between us?”</p><p>Kastor leans back in his chair. The careful tilt of his head makes Laurent think of a bird. “Your inexperience, for one. The wedding was your first time out of Vere.”</p><p><em> Out of the capital,</em> Laurent thinks and keeps that knowledge to himself. “That’s not—”</p><p>“Your overconfidence, which is quite admirable for a second son.”</p><p>“You’re a second son too.”</p><p>“In a way,” Kastor says, not reacting to the implication behind Laurent’s words. “And yet my confidence is proportional to my status.”</p><p>“Are you proportional in all regards then? In the one that truly matters, I mean.”</p><p>A startled laugh. It’s a deep sound, breathless, and Laurent stares at Kastor’s face trying to memorize this expression.</p><p>“Ask my slaves,” Kastor says at last.</p><p>Laurent says nothing back. It feels far too strange to get permission for something he’s already done.</p><p>Like the last time they ate together, the conversation dies down quickly on Kastor’s part. He nods at some of Laurent’s questions, shakes his head at others. When annoyed, Kastor doesn’t raise his voice or roll his eyes. Instead, his face blanks out. It looks like a practiced skill.</p><p>Laurent waits until Kastor has put down the wine pitcher to stand up. The meal has been over for some time, but Kastor hasn’t sent him away yet, something Laurent wants to use to his advantage. <em> I know when to see myself out, </em>Laurent wants to say as he crosses the room.</p><p>Up close, Laurent can see that the curls on Kastor’s nape are still damp from his bath. It’s a struggle not to touch them. He leans forward slowly, slow enough for Kastor’s shove to not hurt if it comes, and presses a kiss on Kastor’s bearded cheek. </p><p>“Thank you,” Laurent says.</p><p>He leaves before Kastor can ask his guards to drag him away.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Erasmus still comes to him in the mornings. He sits by Laurent’s feet, head tilted towards the sun, and watches him read for hours at a time. </p><p>Laurent ignores him. He’s not stupid enough to think Erasmus is there, keeping him company, out of his own free will. But there are times when the inside of Laurent’s mouth feels like a desert from being closed for so long, and he overlooks Erasmus’ rank and master in order to get a few words in, to get the blood flowing into his tongue. There is no one else to talk to, after all.</p><p>“Why do you sit in the shade?” Laurent asks, eyes on his book. “It’s warmer here.”</p><p>Erasmus traces the thin line on the floor where the sunlight begins and does not cross it. “Prince Damianos,” he says, “likes my coloring.”</p><p>“A nap in the sun wouldn’t change that.”</p><p>As expected, Erasmus doesn’t argue. He doesn’t move either.</p><p>There are questions in Laurent’s mouth now. Kallias did not tell him about the selection, did not mention what it was that got him into Kastor’s bed instead of Damianos’ or Theomedes’. Isander shares Kallias’ dark hair, his dainty wrists and ankles, but not the shade of his skin. Kallias is taller than Isander, and Isander is shorter than Laurent. </p><p>Where, Laurent wonders, do Kastor’s tastes truly lie?</p><p>“Have the princes ever shared a slave?” Laurent says. He watches the complicated way Erasmus’ expression changes. “Have they shared you?”</p><p>“This slave is not allowed to—to say—”</p><p>“Nod your head then. That isn’t talking.” When Erasmus stays painfully still, Laurent adds, “My husband seems eclectic in his choices. I simply wondered.”</p><p>It’s the kindest way Laurent has spoken to Erasmus. The slave edges closer to him as if drawn by some pull that cannot be seen, and then gives a tentative, small smile. Does he think he’s finally close to getting his master what he’s asked for?</p><p>“Prince Kastor—” Erasmus hesitates. At Laurent’s encouraging nod, he relaxes his shoulders. “It is tradition for the Exalted One to make his choice first. Then the heir gets his turn.”</p><p>And, finally, to the bastard go the spoils. </p><p>Laurent should feel offended, for Kastor did not choose him either. And yet when he leaves the gallery to eat lunch he feels lighter, tentatively happy for the first time in months. Kallias seems smaller that day when Laurent sees him in the hallway, not as beautiful, not as infuriating.</p><p>Perhaps Kastor learned to like Kallias. Perhaps he can do it again with Laurent.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p><em> I will send an invitation to your husband, </em>Auguste writes to him. Laurent stops reading after that, Auguste’s naivety giving him a headache. There is nothing Kastor wishes to see in Vere, and Laurent has nothing to offer him in return for being allowed to make the journey on his own.</p><p>A womb would make things easier, but Laurent has never had much luck.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Kastor is ignoring him. Again.</p><p>The feast marks the last day of the Vaskian strategist’s stay in Ios. She wears furs and silver necklaces, and Laurent likes her more than any Akielon man in the palace. When he stumbled into her on his way to the library, she pinched his cheek until it turned cherry red. </p><p>Laurent likes to think whatever she said to him was a compliment. </p><p>The seating arrangement feels strange and foreign in the way all Akielon traditions present themselves to Laurent. He's been forced to sit between the two princes, which is neither practical nor logical, but he knows better than to speak up against it. The last time he complained out loud—it'd been about the lack of baths near his rooms—Kastor had looked at him with such disdain Laurent had wished to be buried under the soil, worms feasting on his flesh.</p><p>Laurent takes a sip of his water, his eyes darting to Kastor every now and then. He's close enough that Laurent can smell him, a mixture of lingering sweat from the day spent riding and sweet honey from dessert, and although Kastor never turns his face towards Laurent, there's an awareness to his movements that can't be anything short of deliberate. Not once has Kastor's elbow brushed against his, or his feet grazed Laurent's. It's as though their bodies repel each other completely.</p><p>Theomedes' voice is louder than all the laughter and music, deep and firm in ways Laurent's will never be. His Akielon is old-fashioned, verbs strict and nouns unknown. Laurent is trying to understand Theomedes' last sentence when a hand lands on his kneecap, covering it completely.</p><p>It's not, as Laurent had hoped, Kastor's.</p><p>Laurent stiffens. Around them, no one has noticed. And how would they, when the wooden table keeps them from seeing what is happening underneath it? </p><p>Damianos' body is purposefully turned away from Laurent. He's laughing at a comment Aniketos has made on the wine, shoulders relaxed into a slight slouch. As he nods along to his father's speech, his hand travels up Laurent's thigh.</p><p>It isn't until Damianos' fingers reach his chiton and slip under it that Laurent turns to Kastor.</p><p>“Cloth imports have increased in the last season,” Demokritos is saying to Kastor. “In Delpha, the Kyros taxes merchants most impressively, up to six times a year. The capital could learn a lot from him.”</p><p>“Delpha only holds half of Ios’ population.”</p><p>Demokritos tilts his head, considering. “Well, it could be an annual tax of—”</p><p>Emboldened by his panic, Laurent does something he’s been warned not to do. As Damianos’ fingers brush over the inside of his thigh and beyond, Laurent opens his mouth and says the first thing he knows will force Kastor to drag him out of the feast and away from the prince’s wandering hands.</p><p>“Taxes show the crown’s desperation.”</p><p>The table grows silent and still by stages. Kastor and Demokritos are looking at each other, pretending they have not heard him. For a second, before the strange silence finally spreads, Damianos’ hand stills under Laurent’s skirt. Waiting.</p><p>Demokritos coughs. “As I was saying, one could easily convince the finest merchants from Patras and Vere to pay for the silk they are so fond of smuggling across the border.”</p><p>The hand, impossibly big and warm, forces Laurent’s legs to part. </p><p>“And do you think that will be enough to get the others to follow?” Laurent says, a little louder and more breathless than he would have liked. It’s hard to let air inside his lungs when he’s trying so hard not to shriek. “How is a tax on cloth supposed to help your crumbling economy? Perhaps it'd be wiser to leave robbery to thieves instead of turning it into an official royal practice.”</p><p>Impossibly slow, Kastor turns to look at him. Laurent feels the stare like a hand to his throat, its grip ever-tightening. </p><p>Damianos' ministrations disappear as quietly as they’d begun.</p><p>The music goes on playing, one of the slaves singing about a bloody battlefield where the victory is always Akielos'. Around Laurent, all conversation has ceased. All eyes are on him.</p><p>"Crumbling economy," Theomedes says. His tone is wry, but there's anger under the surface of each word. It's something Laurent learned to look for as a child, and the habit is yet to leave him. "Do you understand this kingdom's struggles better than my advisors? Better even than my kyroi?"</p><p>The back of Laurent’s neck is on fire, tingling with shame. "I—"</p><p>“Father,” Kastor says. It’s the first time Laurent has ever heard him say that word. “I apologize on his behalf. It won’t happen again.”</p><p>Theomedes leans back in his seat. It’s a familiar scene, the way he forces the pause to stretch, everyone holding in their breaths in silent anticipation. Laurent imagines that as his own dread grows, so does everyone else’s pleasure.</p><p>“See to it,” Theomedes says. “I won’t have a Veretian overseeing my country’s affairs.”</p><p>Kastor nods once, stiffly. His posture remains perfect as he rises to his feet, pushing his chair away from the table. He looks unaffected, but Laurent has been studying his face for months, has memorized every flickering emotion Kastor has ever failed to repress. </p><p>Kastor is furious.</p><p><em> He’ll strike me here,</em> Laurent thinks wildly, <em> in front of all these people. </em> The thought, although tinged with fear, awakens something in Laurent. Is this what it takes to get Kastor to touch him?</p><p>Guided by blind impulse, Laurent stands up as well. It’s the right thing to do, evidently, because Kastor’s hand closes around his wrist and, instead of holding him in place for the blow, he tugs Laurent away from the table.</p><p>The walk up the marble stairs is a nightmare Laurent can't wake up from. He stumbles his way up as Kastor drags him along, and each step feels impossibly tall to his short legs. As they're nearing the end, Laurent's tongue finally disentangles. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Kastor's grip on his wrist tightens to let him know his words will not be well received.</p><p>The guards waiting by Kastor’s rooms move away from the door the moment they see them approaching. They keep their eyes low on the tiles, but as Laurent is herded into the room he notices the lingering stare one of them gives him. He’s looking at Laurent’s exposed legs.</p><p>Kastor slams the door shut, and the sound carries. It startles Laurent like a blow.</p><p>“Next time you want my attention,” Kastor says, taking a step closer, and another, “you call my name.”</p><p>“I wasn’t trying to interrupt. Your brother—”</p><p>Kastor cuts him off with a dry laugh. “I’d rather not know what arrangement my brother has made with you. If you’re in such desperate need of an audience, I’ll make sure my guards accommodate you.”</p><p>Laurent can’t help the burning blush that spreads across his face like an infection. Not even slaves are fucked in public. He says, “There’s no arrangement. Your brother is taking liberties again.”</p><p>“Damianos seems awfully convinced that you want him.”</p><p>“I do not.”</p><p>Kastor pulls away then. Three short steps later, he’s standing by the table, pouring himself a cup of wine. Laurent can smell the alcohol in the air, sweet and fruity, a southern variety. It makes him wish for water.</p><p>He’s seen a drunk man hit a pet before.</p><p>Back turned to Laurent, Kastor says, “You’d make things easier for yourself if you learned to pretend.”</p><p>“Like you do?”</p><p>As usual, Kastor ignores him. </p><p>“I’d lie with him if you’d—” Laurent stops. He doesn’t know what to ask for first, the list of favors in his head suddenly too long. Slowly, he realizes he does not know any crude words in Akielon.</p><p>“If I...?” Kastor says, but it’s clear in his voice he does not care much for the answer. He’s a man indulging a child, holding a sweetmeat close enough to a pet’s mouth that it can be tasted.</p><p>“Our marriage. I want it to be consummated.”</p><p>In the candlelight, Kastor looks younger than he really is. The orange glow makes his face softer, the silver in his dark beard completely unnoticeable. If Laurent did not know better, he’d think him Auguste’s age. Or Damianos’.</p><p>Kastor puts the cup down. Red wine sloshes over the edge and dribbles down onto the table. His eyes are set on Laurent’s legs.</p><p>“Kneel,” Kastor says.</p><p>And so Laurent does. He hears Erasmus’ voice in his head, telling him to do it slowly so his movements will be more graceful. Hears the whispered praise and feels the ghost of a touch on his lower back, a signal to correct his posture.</p><p>Without having to be told, Laurent clasps his hands behind his back, tilts his head up, and waits. His heart, which Laurent imagines to be very small, like a bird’s, beats and beats and beats inside his chest. </p><p>Kastor stands in front of him, so close his chiton brushes against Laurent’s chin. In a moment of lost clarity, Laurent considers leaning forward to kiss the fabric.</p><p>“Palms up,” Kastor says, voice dithering between softness and intransigency. When Laurent presents his hands, Kastor grabs his wrists and forces his arms to part. “Close your eyes.”</p><p>Strapped to an invisible cross, Laurent complies. Each breath he takes is calm and measured, and it makes him think of the ocean. Any moment now, any second, he’ll feel the head of Kastor’s cock parting his lips.</p><p>A heavy weight settles on both of his hands. Laurent opens his eyes, startled, and sees that Kastor has put a book on top of each palm. They’re thick, threatening instantly to make Laurent lower his arms.</p><p>But Kastor does not let him move.</p><p>“Perhaps you’ll mind your tongue next time, or else we’ll be forced to repeat this.”</p><p>Laurent’s frustration makes him tremble. His arms are beginning to tingle. “What—”</p><p>“The King has publicly asked me to punish you,” Kastor says. He pauses, watching Laurent’s expression with strange curiosity, but when it’s time for him to go on, to explain more, he remains quiet.</p><p>Laurent sits on his haunches. The floor has stopped feeling comfortable under him, but he does not dare complain. He says, “How long must I stay like this?”</p><p>“Until I decide I want you in another position.”</p><p>“But it’s—”</p><p>“Unfair?” Kastor’s contempt is back. He lets go of Laurent’s wrists, knowing now that Laurent will not move. “Would you rather I sent you to my brother? I can assure you, his punishments lack any creativity.”</p><p>The faint welts on Erasmus’ thighs come back to Laurent then, like something floating to the surface of a pond. Would Damianos dare? </p><p>Another question rises in Laurent, tall and threatening as a wave. <em> Why wouldn’t he? </em></p><p>Kastor sits down on the only chair by his bed, the one with the cushioned armrests that do not match the room. It’s the one Laurent lounged on a season past, staring at Kallias and Kastor fuck. Now the roles have been wryly reversed: Laurent performs, Kastor watches.</p><p>The pain begins at his wrists. It’s easy to ignore, at first. A dozen hot needles prickle him from the inside out and then turn into a hundred, and a thousand. The burn travels up his arms, through the muscles, and stops at the next joints. His elbows feel the way he imagines cattle does when it’s being branded, hot and painful. By the time Laurent’s shoulders begin to ache, his stomach clenches in a warning. </p><p>He tastes bile and candied grapes and swallows. Had he eaten anything else, it would now be splattered all over the floor.</p><p>Kastor rises before the first tears begin leaking from Laurent’s eyes. He takes his time walking up to Laurent, as though there are more important things than this, as though he can’t see the furious trembling of Laurent’s arms. By the time Kastor removes the books, Laurent is too far gone to feel relieved. Despite the weight being gone, Laurent keeps his arms in place, outstretched, palms facing up. It’s like his body can’t remember any other posture.</p><p>Without command or praise, Kastor drags him to his feet and holds him in place. Laurent is glad for Kastor’s hands on his waist, keeping him from tumbling forward. After so long on the floor, Laurent’s legs feel like they belong to someone else, weirdly disconnected from his own body.</p><p>He presses his wet cheek to Kastor’s chest. His neck isn’t strong enough to hold his head anymore, so he lets it loll forward.</p><p>When the guard comes to help him back to his rooms, Kastor is hesitant to let go of him. That moment, although insignificantly small, makes Laurent’s breath return. Starved hounds feasting on scraps know less desperation than he does.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“I would like him to stop,” Laurent says, “pursuing me.”</p><p>Despite being married to Damianos, Jokaste has her own rooms. There are always people in them, ladies and slaves and her husband. Finding her alone is not a coincidence, but Laurent needs this too much to try and untangle her reasons for indulging him.</p><p>Jokaste gives him a long look. Her blue gaze gives little away, and even if it didn’t Laurent has never been particularly good at reading women. She says, “Then perhaps start by not encouraging his efforts.”</p><p>“I’ve never—”</p><p>“You’ve used his slave,” Jokaste says, toneless. “You smile at him. You’re courteous when you should be silent. What is he to think?”</p><p>Unable to meet her eyes, Laurent sets his gaze on her belly. Only half a season left, with the way she’s swelling. Theomedes wants it to be a boy, and Laurent goes to sleep every night, murmuring to himself maiden names. Kastor has said nothing of the whole matter, but Laurent suspects he also wants Damianos to have a daughter.</p><p>Jokaste rises from her chair, stretching. Her dress is taut over her stomach, stitches close to ripping. “Why do you fret?” she says. “Kastor spoke to him after your little incident with Theomedes. It shall not happen again.”</p><p>Laurent’s throat closes. It does not open until he’s out of the room and away from her, hiding in the dark of his own rooms. <em> He wants me to himself</em>, Laurent thinks, and the happiness inside him swells, quietly.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>In the lonely moments before he falls asleep, Laurent thinks of crawling his way through the dark and into Damianos’ bed. It’s not him Laurent aches for, or the stretch Kallias so carefully described to him, or the soft glow in Erasmus he’s always envied. He wants to be held.</p><p>Kallias opens the door for him hours after the feast has ended. The two guards standing in the hall ask Laurent no questions, as Kallias told him they wouldn’t. The true reason behind their willfulness to help Kallias is something Laurent does not want to know.</p><p>Laurent steps into the room. Kallias steps out of it. </p><p>It’s dark with all the curtains drawn, yet Laurent takes his time avoiding the table, finding the bed blindly. The mattress is warm under his fingertips, a bitter gift from Kallias’, but Laurent does not dwell on it. </p><p>Asleep, Kastor drags Laurent closer the moment he’s under the sheets. It’s not quite an embrace, but Laurent likes the weight of Kastor’s arm on him, pinning him to the bed. Because it’s dark, because no one will ever know, Laurent curls up impossibly close and kisses the base of Kastor’s throat. Once, twice. </p><p>He stills when Kastor shifts, the hairs on his legs tickling the inside of Laurent’s thighs, and relaxes once more as he studies Kastor’s soft breathing. Each blow of warm air makes Laurent’s scalp tingle.</p><p>It is too easy to pretend in the dark.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Have you checked out the art that inspired this fic? <a href="https://ancelegance.tumblr.com/post/639321272553291776/kastor-and-laurent-princes-of-ios-say-the-most">Here, Kass drew it. </a> </p><p>TW: Punishments (not the kinky kind). I don't think this fic needs more trigger warnings, but if you feel like I should tag something in particular feel free to let me know in the comments.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Laurent sits up on the bed, heart beating inside his throat, and wipes at the wet corner of his mouth. Kastor is lying on his side, his brown gaze on Laurent's face.</p><p>As Laurent takes in the sunlit room, one single thought starts to form in his head, pushing away every other need. The little whore tricked him.</p><p>"I take it you slept soundly," Kastor says. </p><p>There are no guards around the bed, pointing their swords at Laurent’s throat. The only sound in the room is the far-away crashing of the waves, for Kastor’s rooms overlook the sea. If he’d wanted to, Kastor could have had Laurent dragged out of here. Or shoved out the window.</p><p>“This is how it should be between us,” Laurent says with renewed confidence. “How it should have been from the beginning. It isn’t as though I disturbed your rest.”</p><p>“And Kallias’? I took my slave to bed last night, not you.”</p><p>Laurent pushes the hurt away. He sits up on the bed, for the first time daring to look at Kastor’s body half-hidden under the sheet. It’s not long until he has to look away, flushing. Their bodies have little in common.</p><p>“Then punish me if it pleases you. I—” Laurent stops, realizing he’s spoken the last word in Veretian. “I’ll simply do it again.”</p><p>A light breeze makes Laurent shudder. Despite being the one wearing fewer clothes, Kastor is unfazed by the sudden cold, only tilting his head. The scar at the base of his throat has never looked so pink, and Laurent has to ball his hands into fists to keep from reaching out to trace it. </p><p><em> Auguste did that,</em> he thinks.</p><p>“Have you brought no other clothes?”</p><p>“No,” Laurent says, confused. The camisole he’s wearing was a gift from Uncle. He’s had it since he was sixteen. “They’re for sleeping.”</p><p>A mocking smile. “And sleeping only. How does one fuck in such garments?”</p><p>“It’s not their fault you’re such a brute. Can’t you undo laces?”</p><p>By the time Laurent realizes what he’s said, it’s too late. The words will not come back to him no matter how desperately he calls for them, and Kastor’s impassive face tells him apologizing will bring only grief. </p><p>“Go to your rooms,” Kastor says, “and wait for me there.”</p><p>Laurent slides out of the bed, his hands over his thighs to keep the camisole from showing too much skin. As he leaves, he thinks of Kallias all those weeks ago, dripping and blank-faced, both of them making the same shameful exit.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Instead of obeying Kastor’s orders, Laurent hides behind a column and waits. He feels the way he did as a child, playing in the gardens with his brother, hiding from his tutors. </p><p>Laurent does not miss those days. Little has changed since.</p><p>Kastor emerges perfectly dressed, his chiton longer than usual, more formal. Laurent follows him in silence, stopping every once to hide behind an open door or a sculpture when he thinks Kastor has heard his steps. Like this, playing a game only Laurent knows of, they both make it to the throne room.</p><p>From the door, Laurent watches Kastor kneel at his father’s feet.</p><p>Theomedes listens to him, to the succinct and perfunctory retelling of the night before. Kastor does not name Laurent, but he does speak out loud the names of his guards. One of them Laurent’s heard before, the other is foreign. </p><p>“They are men you drafted,” Kastor says. To everyone else, he sounds almost bored, but Laurent’s ears pick up on the edge of his words, sharp as a knife. The accusation cuts through the air, yet Theomedes ignores it. “And so I ask for your permission to punish them.”</p><p>Theomedes frowns. “It is a waste to be rid of them. Must you make a fuss over such a little inconvenience? Punish your slave instead.”</p><p>“I won’t have men I don’t trust standing guard outside my rooms.” Kastor rises and lifts his head to meet his father’s gaze. He says, “Gift them to Damianos if waste is what worries you. Unless you do not trust them around your son.”</p><p>To that, Theomedes says nothing. Resigned, he nods and shifts in the throne, uncrossing his legs. He looks so much older than the first time Laurent saw him, beard the color of snow. Any day now, Laurent thinks, he’ll sit on that throne for the last time.</p><p>As Kastor crosses the door, Laurent presses himself flat against the wall to avoid being seen. Out of the whole conversation, it isn’t the fate of the guards that angers him. Even his excitement at the possibility of Kallias being punished is subdued, dull. </p><p><em> Your son</em>, Kastor said, as though he himself wasn’t Theomedes’ blood at all.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>To Laurent’s never-ending disappointment, the guards are flogged publicly in the courtyard. Their blood makes the white sand turn orange, then red. After the fifteenth lash, Laurent looks away, bored. It’s the wrong body strapped to the rack, too old, too muscular.</p><p>Kallias escapes punishment unscathed. To a point.</p><p>The night after the incident takes place, Kallias disappears into Kastor’s rooms, barefoot and wearing nothing but a white, thin loincloth. There are rods in his hands, enough of them that they clink together and chime as he walks, long metal bells. </p><p>He is not let out for two days. </p><p>Erasmus is waiting for him in the slaves’ baths, after. Laurent watches him pet Kallias’ hair through the crack on the door. Erasmus holds his hand as they soak. And after, too, when the first stream of red leaves Kallias’ cock.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Laurent’s punishment never comes. He waits for it, for the guards to shove him into Kastor’s rooms, for the cold rods, for the sharp whip. But there is nothing at all.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Curled up by the big window in Kastor’s rooms, Laurent alternates between reading and dozing off. The book on his lap is heavy, its weight comforting. Like this, closed-eyed and enjoying the warm sunlight, Laurent feels almost at peace.</p><p>At some point, he hears Kastor come in, firm footsteps that turn hesitant as they grow nearer. But Laurent doesn’t open his eyes, making sure to keep his breathing as steady as possible, his limbs relaxed.</p><p>There is a small reward for his performance. Kastor takes the book away, gently, his fingers brushing against Laurent’s. This is the first time he’s come back to his rooms to find Laurent asleep, and it’s the only time he does not have him escorted into the hall.</p><p>A greener boy would hope to be lifted off the floor and carried to a shared and familiar bed. Laurent relishes in other, simpler things, like Kastor’s heavy hand on his head or the fragile silence between them. </p><p>The lie cannot last long, for Laurent’s legs are growing numb under him. Just as Kastor’s hand leaves his hair, Laurent opens his eyes. He makes sure to do it slowly, eyelashes fluttering and gaze unfocused, the way his brother’s pets always did. </p><p>“There’s a bed,” Kastor says, eyes on the sea. The sunlight makes his eyelashes look darker. </p><p>“I know that.”</p><p>“Is it Veretian tradition to nap on the floors?”</p><p>Laurent hesitates. He thinks it might be a jest. “Maybe. In Vere, we reserve our beds for other activities.”</p><p>“So I’ve heard.”</p><p>Kastor lets his hand hang by his side, too close to Laurent’s cheek. The pads of his fingers feel rough against Laurent’s skin, calloused and experienced. The position they’re in lends itself to the imagination. In his own quiet fantasy, Laurent shifts and takes one of Kastor’s fingers in his mouth. </p><p>In reality, he stays very still.</p><p>“Did you visit the pet rings? The best ones are in Varenne.” Laurent flushes, doesn’t want to give the wrong impression. He quickly adds, “Or so my brother claims. I—wouldn’t know.”</p><p>“I fail to see what could possibly be impressive about them.”</p><p>“Some pets can do tricks.”</p><p>Kastor laughs. He sits down on his bed, bending over a little to reach the straps of his sandals and undo them. “Sucking cock is not a trick,” he says. “Unless one does it exceptionally well. And even then…”</p><p>“Let me.”</p><p>The sun hides behind a cloud, taking with it the fuzzy warmth that had been filling the room. Instantly, Laurent’s back goes cold. </p><p>Crawling is an art, one Laurent has not mastered yet. He tries to do it slowly, but his bare knees still complain against the friction of the tiles. Kastor watches him, silent. </p><p>“I can do it,” Laurent says, and puts his hand over Kastor’s, pushing it away from the leather strap. “And even then…?”</p><p>It takes Kastor a long time to recover. His eyebrows touch, and Laurent imagines him trying to remember what their conversation had been about before Laurent put his hands on him. It soon proves to be a losing battle.</p><p>At last, Kastor says, “Where is the fun in watching? In a circle of men you’re nothing but another hand flicking coins at the whores.”</p><p>Laurent focuses on the task at hand instead of giving an immediate answer. It’s easy to untangle the straps, almost as easy as undoing the laces of his own vests, and yet Laurent takes his time on each one, savoring the slight twitches of Kastor’s muscles under the pads of his fingers. His chiton has rode up, exposing the hair-covered thighs Laurent has stared at a hundred times before. Always from a distance. </p><p>“They do as you tell them,” Laurent says, “in exchange for enough gold. Even an earring will do, cheap as it may be. And there’s—they won’t refuse.”</p><p>“Or so your brother has told you.”</p><p><em> Uncle </em>, Laurent thinks but keeps the correction to himself. It does not matter now. “What I mean is you don’t have to soil yourself at all. Yet you get to watch—” Another strap, Kastor’s left leg naked. “—and learn.”</p><p>“Learn?”</p><p>“What you like,” Laurent says calmly, “and what they don’t.”</p><p>Kastor’s right cheek caves in. He’s hard, the outline of his cock visible against the skirt of his chiton. There’s a damp spot, widening, which Laurent can’t look away from.</p><p>Laurent places both hands on Kastor’s kneecaps and uses them as support to prop himself up and reach Kastor’s mouth. And Kastor, although rigid under Laurent’s touch, allows it.</p><p>For the first couple of seconds, Laurent does not move. He does not know how, and so he simply tilts his head to the side, enough that the tip of his nose grazes Kastor’s. The lips against his own are soft, but the beard around them is thick and coarse and burns Laurent’s skin instantly.</p><p>It’s only when he begins to pull away that Kastor’s mouth goes slack, opening, his tongue darting out as though he means to lick his own lips. He licks Laurent’s instead.</p><p>Kastor tastes of salt and skin and nothing more. It is hardly poetic, the drag of his teeth over Laurent’s lower lip, the way he grips Laurent’s jaw with only one hand, fingers at its hinges. Kastor kisses the way Laurent imagines lowborn men do, a certain filth to it all. </p><p>“I’ll sleep here tonight,” Laurent says the second it’s over. </p><p>Kastor does not say it out loud, but the thumb he presses to Laurent’s throbbing mouth tastes a lot like permission.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>They sleep in the same bed, night after night. Laurent crawls under the sheets the first time, bathed and dripping oil, thinking by the time dawn comes he’ll have what he’s been after all these months. But his hope dies down slowly, withering as the minutes turn into hours and Kastor keeps to his side of the bed, an unbreachable divide between their bodies.</p><p>He thinks of stripping off his clothes before getting into Kastor’s bed the second night, but in the end, he’s not brave enough to do it. He’d like someone else to undo his laces, to slip off his shirt. To make it mean something other than the tired ritual of sleep.</p><p>By the fourth night, Laurent has learned to force himself to stay awake long after Kastor’s body has gone limp. Then, like the greedy child he is, Laurent curls up closer to Kastor, touching his hair, tracing the bumps of his spine with one hesitant finger.</p><p>Kastor’s back is a broad expanse of smooth skin, tainted only by a single birthmark at the base of his neck, often hidden away by his curls. Laurent learns it by heart, the map that back creates. </p><p>The mornings are all the same now. Kastor awakens before Laurent and leaves the bed to break his fast. He is never there when Laurent opens his eyes, his day already started and filled with obligations. </p><p>Alone, Laurent shifts to Kastor’s side of the bed. He breathes his pillow in, touches the sinking spot on the mattress Kastor’s body has occupied all night. It’s as close to intimacy as they get.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“You should kiss me again,” Laurent says on the tenth night.</p><p>Kastor pretends he hasn’t heard Laurent, his eyes never leaving the letter in his hands. He’s been reading since before Laurent got into bed. </p><p>“The fact that you didn’t at the wedding is offensive enough. Erasmus told me it is tradition for all Akielon marriages to begin with a kiss.”</p><p>“Should I have fucked you with your brother watching?” Kastor says, unaffected by Laurent’s growing tantrum. “That is also a tradition.”</p><p>“That’s different.”</p><p>Kastor turns to look at him.  “How is it different?”</p><p>“Public consummations are Veretian traditions,” Laurent says. “We had an Akielon wedding. In Akielos.”</p><p>“Where else would one have an Akielon wedding but in Akielos?”</p><p>Laurent offers him what he thinks is an unimpressed look. He has no idea what his own face is doing. “You found it pleasant. Kissing me. I don’t know why you like to pretend that you didn’t.”</p><p>Kastor folds his letter in half and, without much grace, lets it fall on the floor. The sound of the paper grazing the tiles is soft, like an exhale of breath. </p><p>“I have played these games before,” Kastor says as he settles against the pillows, “and I will not play them again.”</p><p>“How many times have you married?”</p><p>“One too many.”</p><p>Laurent’s head starts to feel like a drum, blood pumping furiously at his temples. “This is not a game. I—” He swallows, but the words come back up like vomit. “I learned your language, I did as my family bid me, and I even tried to—”</p><p>“As your uncle bid you,” Kastor says dryly. “Let us stop pretending. Your brother may be king, but he is even more slow-minded than Damianos. Whatever alliance your uncle was hoping to make with me does not include Auguste.”</p><p>Laurent frowns. “It wasn’t my uncle that wanted the alliance. Your father demanded I marry you.”</p><p>“Is that what he told you?”</p><p>“It’s the truth.”</p><p>Kastor’s posture changes. His hands, which had been tightly clasped over his stomach, relax and run over the sheets, chasing away all the wrinkles. “My father has never cared who I marry,” he says. “He has never cared about being an ally to Vere either. And we were winning the war.”</p><p>They were. Laurent ignores the comment. “If my uncle wanted an ally, he would have gone to your father. Which is what he did. You’re just a—”</p><p>Silence. The word is between them, in the air, everywhere. <em> That mouth of yours will get you in trouble one day </em>, Auguste had told him once. And now Laurent sees the trouble, sees himself standing still as it devours him completely.</p><p>“A bastard?” Kastor says. He then repeats the word in Veretian, the edge of his taunt sharpening. “Is that the expression you were looking for?”</p><p>Laurent flushes. “I—”</p><p>“Ask your uncle what he’s offered me.” A pause, and then a flood of words: “You’re arrogant enough to believe your cunt is worth a peace treaty when it’s nothing but an incentive. Have I made you upset, princess? Your uncle thinks you’re the first blonde whore with ambitions I have taken to bed.”</p><p>The words take a minute to sink in, and when they do Laurent struggles against their weight, against their meaning.</p><p>“My uncle acts in my brother’s interests,” Laurent says. In Vere’s interests, he should have said. “A marriage for a peace treaty, that is what was bargained. And why would—he’s not the king.”</p><p>Laurent’s agitation proves to be too much of a hassle for Kastor, for he turns and blows out the only lit candle in the room. Into the darkness, he says, “It doesn’t matter. If it troubles you, know I have refused him.”</p><p>“My uncle’s not the king,” Laurent argues. He hears Kastor rolling over onto his side, away from him, the way he does every night. </p><p>The reply he gets is muffled, not meant to reach his ears. <em> Yet </em>.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Laurent doesn’t ask Uncle. It’s a sign of growth, not hiding in his rooms to write him a letter. One summer ago Laurent would not have lasted a day without reaching out for a quill, but now he thinks he understands what Kastor meant all that time ago about pretending.</p><p>In a marriage, whatever festers should do so silently, without involving other people.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Go,” Kastor says through gritted teeth. He pushes Laurent’s hands away, but he’s weak enough that Laurent only stumbles back a single step.</p><p>Laurent almost does as he’s told. But then he thinks of other hands attending Kastor, feeding him broth, stripping the sheets off the bed, and suddenly Laurent can’t leave. He’d rather face punishment than have Kallias in these rooms again.</p><p>The sheets are damp with sweat, but Kastor refuses to let go of them. He’s shivering, and when Laurent presses a hand to his forehead the fever makes itself known. He woke up like this after a night of tossing and turning, and Laurent had known immediately that something was wrong. Kastor never stayed with him past sunrise.</p><p>“Here,” Laurent says and lifts a cup of water to Kastor’s mouth. “You need to drink as much as—”</p><p>Kastor angles his face away, almost knocking the cup out of Laurent’s hand. “Leave. I won’t say it again.”</p><p>How many lashes will this get him? Each guard received thirty, but Laurent doubts he can live past ten. And if it’s Kastor wielding the whip…</p><p>“No,” Laurent says. His legs are cold from kneeling by the bed, yet the thought of rising does not come to him. “I know what I’m doing. When my mother was sick, I—”</p><p>Kastor coughs out a laugh. “I’m not a woman.”</p><p><em> No, but you’re a bastard </em>. Laurent does not say it, mainly because he does not know which one is worse. He does what he’s ached to do all these months: reaches out and pushes the stubborn, damp curls away from Kastor’s eyes. The skin under his fingers is burning.</p><p>When Laurent moves away from the bed, Kastor visibly deflates. He can’t hide his reactions now, not as well as he usually can, and Laurent smiles at the disappointment Kastor exudes. He comes back with a wooden bucket and a damp towel, which he places gingerly on Kastor’s forehead.</p><p>Kastor frowns at him. A single drop of water leaves the towel and slides down his temple.</p><p>“You need to let me undress you,” Laurent says. “No sheets or clothes for a while, or else the fever will not break.” </p><p>This time, when Laurent tugs at the sheets, Kastor lets go of them. Kastor does not wear clothes to bed, Laurent knows this, and yet he finds himself flushing at the sight revealed to him.  </p><p>Once Laurent is sure Kastor has dozed off, he leaves the rooms and heads to the kitchens. The bowl of broth is warm in his hand, and he walks up the stairs very slowly to make sure the bread won’t fall from the tray. </p><p>Kastor opens his eyes just as Laurent is dropping small pieces of bread into the soup.</p><p>“I know,” Laurent says even though Kastor hasn’t said anything. “Soggy bread isn’t ideal, but your throat... You were coughing earlier.” He grips the spoon a little too tightly as he lifts it to Kastor’s mouth. At Kastor’s hesitation, he adds, “It’s not too hot.”</p><p>Around midday, after seventeen spoonfuls of broth and bread, Laurent decides Kastor’s fever has receded enough to allow him one of the sheets. Laurent settles on his side of the bed before pulling the covers over Kastor, up to his chest.  </p><p>Laurent doesn’t touch him more than necessary. He knows how much one’s skin can hurt after a fever, how skittish Mother always was after an episode. Instead, Laurent waits until Kastor has closed his eyes to pet his hair, slowly, the way he likes to be petted himself.</p><p>The fever lasts two more days, during which Laurent does not leave the rooms except to fetch more food and order the slaves to bring new sheets and towels and warm water. </p><p>On the morning of the second day, Laurent opens the door to find Damianos dithering in the hallway, his hand half-raised as though about to knock.</p><p>“He isn’t well yet,” Laurent says stiffly. </p><p>It could happen there, in the empty corridor outside of Kastor’s rooms. There are no guards, for Laurent dismissed them as soon as he knew Kastor was ill, and Kastor himself is too exhausted to be any match to Damianos. A shove into the wall, the struggled tearing of Laurent’s chiton, the muffled breach. It could happen.</p><p>Damianos nods once. Their bodies do not touch as Laurent sidesteps him on his way to the kitchens.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Something changes between them after that. It’s a tentative, invisible concession. Kastor stays longer in bed in the mornings, he asks Laurent a single question at night, he bathes after an evening with Kallias. </p><p>Laurent waits. Any day now, he thinks. Any day Kastor will give in.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>It is the coldest day of the year, and the shortest as well. In Vere, the winter solstice brings snow and celebrations: warm food, steaming baths, cheerful games on the ice. But in Akielos the winters are quiet affairs, endured rather than enjoyed. There’s no snow or games, not even a feast. Laurent mourns this all day, mood sourer than usual, and refuses to leave Kastor’s rooms after his bath. </p><p>When Kastor steps into the room, Laurent is so startled he almost knocks over the candle by the bed. He isn’t supposed to be there, Laurent thinks, because tonight is one of the frequent nights a month he reserves for Kallias. Or Isander. Or both.</p><p>Kastor is holding a plate. Even from the bed, Laurent can smell the sweetness of it, of honey and apples. Perhaps pears.</p><p>“Are you fasting?” Kastor says, not moving from the doorway. He must have dismissed the guards, for there is no one standing behind him in the hallway. </p><p>“I—no. Yes.”</p><p>“Yes or no?”</p><p>Laurent feels his face grow hot. He thought he’d be asleep by the time Kastor came back, and so he did not put too much intent into brushing his hair or choosing his clothes. The sheets cover little of his camisole, its long white sleeves and high neck painfully obvious and foreign against the Akielon setting.</p><p>“What does it matter to you?” Laurent says. He eyes the plate without meaning to. “I won’t steal your food if that’s what worries you.”</p><p>Kastor gives him a long, tired look. </p><p>And then Laurent understands. “It’s for me.”</p><p>Awkwardly, Kastor crosses the room. The plate looks small in his hand, both the same rich brown color and the closer Kastor gets to the bed the more the air smells of sweets.</p><p>“You did not come down for dinner,” Kastor says. “Jokaste suggested I brought you something to eat.”</p><p>Jokaste. Laurent is too elated by Kastor’s words to focus on whether it’s plausible or not that she said that. As far as he knows, Damianos’ wife would only send him poisoned food.</p><p>“Why not send a slave?” Laurent says, taking the plate from Kastor’s hand. It’s warm, and it pleases Laurent to know he was right: candied pears and apples. “It’s rather inconvenient for you to be here.”</p><p>“Inconvenient.”</p><p>“Your other rooms are in the east wing.” Then, as he swallows the first bite of fruit, “Will you be back before dawn?”</p><p>On the nights Kastor spends away from their bed, Laurent forces himself to stay awake. It’s equal parts punishment and hope, the thrill of knowing any second Kastor could come through the door making him feel like a child again. It is a complicated thing to feel. </p><p>He’s never dared ask Kastor to come back to him, to crawl back under the sheets wearing Kallias’ sweat and Isander’s drool. This is their bed now, even if they’re yet to use it for more than sleeping and arguing. Kallias and Isander have no place here.</p><p>“I,” Kastor starts, then stops. He’s watching Laurent lick the honey off his fingers. “Kallias is indisposed.”</p><p><em> And Isander? </em>Laurent almost asks. In the end, he doesn’t, already knowing the answer. Isander is tender in a way that reminds Laurent of Erasmus; he is obviously not Kastor’s favorite.</p><p>An idea starts to bloom in Laurent’s head, taking root, expanding. He puts the plate down on the floor, careful not to spill honey on the sheets because he knows Kastor does not like a mess.</p><p>“I could attend you,” Laurent says, too eager to feel embarrassed. “I could—because they’re unable to, I mean.”</p><p>Kastor is sitting on his favorite chair. He blinks at Laurent, and blinks, and blinks. </p><p>“They undress you.”</p><p>“They are slaves.”</p><p>“And I’m—” Laurent looks away, uncomfortable. He’d been a prince, once. “Undressing you hardly requires training. Anyone can do it.”</p><p>Kastor knows what Laurent is asking. It’s the only thing he’s asked for since their wedding night, the only request that never varies, never stops. Laurent knows he could have asked for other things—to have Kallias over him, to have Isander under him, to have both of them take turns on each other and just watch—but he isn’t interested in other people’s bodies. He hardly even stares at them, never notices their movements like he does with Kastor’s.</p><p>With a nod, Kastor allows it. But just as Laurent begins to move he rises from his chair and, in three steps, reaches the bed. He hovers by it, waiting for Laurent to crawl to the edge.</p><p>The pin at Kastor’s shoulder comes out first. It’s not golden like the one Damianos wears, but a duller, bronzer color. Laurent takes it away with one swift movement, and watches the chiton come undone. Kastor’s chest is all he can see, tanned skin and hair and a few scars Laurent wants to ask about.</p><p>The belt around Kastor’s waist is even easier to untie. It’s made of soft rope, thin and light, and Laurent’s hands tremble as he undoes the small knot keeping it in place. At last, the chiton falls to the floor, a crumpled white circle Kastor steps out of. He is not wearing anything under it. </p><p>Laurent has to bend over in order to reach Kastor’s sandals, which makes it hard for him to ignore Kastor’s cock. He’s broader and thicker than Laurent everywhere, even there. Yet Laurent does not feel ashamed by the comparison his mind draws, doubts it matters at all to either of them.</p><p>Once free of his sandals, Kastor does not move. He stands by the bed, directly in front of Laurent, and says nothing. One moment he is a quiet spectator, towering over Laurent, and the next he is leaning forward with enough force to knock Laurent back onto the mattress.</p><p>Kastor’s mouth is on his, and his cock leaves a wet trail on Laurent’s camisole right by his hip bone. Laurent can feel it through the cloth, the weight of it, the drag. He doesn’t know where to put his hands or how to move his mouth or how to remember anything Erasmus ever taught him. At that second, Laurent thinks he’d make the worst slave.</p><p><em> Plead </em> , Erasmus had said, <em> but never refuse </em>.</p><p>But Laurent doesn’t know how to plead. He’s never had to, before Kastor. </p><p>“On your stomach,” Kastor says, saving Laurent from having to ask for it himself.</p><p>Laurent shifts under Kastor’s body and presses his face into the pillow, biting the tip of his tongue in the process. The pillowcase is soothingly cold against his flaming cheeks.</p><p>Kastor puts one hand on Laurent's back, right between his shoulder blades, and presses down. Laurent's body reacts the way it always did during his lessons with Erasmus, slowly stretching until his back is a perfect sunken curve.</p><p>He startles when Kastor's other hand finds his throat, thumb pressing down on the spot where Laurent's heartbeat is strongest. The high collar of his camisole does not protect him from the heat of Kastor’s skin.</p><p>"Breathe," Kastor says, lips grazing Laurent's clothed shoulder. </p><p>Laurent is quick to obey. He takes a deep breath as Kastor forces his legs further apart, and then again when the hand at his throat disappears. Erasmus told him to breathe through it, to count in his head, to think of other things, and yet Laurent finds himself blinking against the pillow, wanting to be aware of it all.</p><p>The sharp, horrible pain he's expecting never comes. In its place there's the quiet discomfort of Kastor's hands on his cheeks, pulling them apart with enough intent that Laurent's skin burns. His camisole has been rolled up to his chest, letting it all be seen.</p><p>It should bring Laurent shame, being on his knees, bent over and exposed for an Akielon. He tries to imagine himself in Kastor's place, spreading someone's legs apart, commanding them to take what he gives them. He cannot.</p><p>Laurent tenses when he feels Kastor’s soft, warm breaths against his hole. Tersely, he says, “Will you stop—”</p><p>But then Kastor’s tongue is on him, and Laurent’s words get lost in his throat.</p><p>He feels Kastor laugh against his skin at the reaction, a pleased hum that ought to make Laurent angry but doesn’t. For a second, Kastor’s tongue disappears, and Laurent whines into the pillow before he can even think of stopping himself. </p><p>“Eager?” Kastor says, his hands curled around Laurent’s thighs. </p><p>Instead of his tongue, Kastor applies his mouth next. It’s wet enough that Laurent feels the spit dribbling down his thighs as Kastor kisses him there, open-mouthed and sloppy in a way that has Laurent pushing back against his lips.</p><p>When Kastor pulls away a third time, Laurent groans into the pillow and reaches back blindly until his fingers find Kastor’s curls. They’re soft and easy to pull, and Laurent tugs on them once, hard, trying to get Kastor to touch him again.</p><p>“Give me your hands,” Kastor says, disentangling his curls from Laurent’s grip with peaceful ease. “Now, Laurent.”</p><p>The command makes Laurent’s legs tremble. Face buried in the pillow once more, he arches his back as much as he can and rests his hands on top of his tailbone. Kastor grabs his two wrists in one hand and squeezes.</p><p><em> Fuck me </em>, Laurent wants to say. It’s on the tip of his tongue, leaking past his teeth, but he does not dare. His cock is hard enough that Laurent can feel it curving against his stomach, leaving a wet trail on his skin. Kastor must see it, and yet he ignores Laurent’s arousal completely.</p><p>A thick liquid slides down the inside of Laurent’s right cheek, slowly making its way to his hole. In a burst of wild inspiration, Laurent remembers Kallias’ words. </p><p>
  <em> He likes oil. </em>
</p><p>“Have you,” Kastor starts and does not finish, his thumb at Laurent’s hole, smearing the honey-like oil around. </p><p>“No,” Laurent says. It comes out muffled. “I—never.”</p><p>He feels Kastor pause, fingers stilling. “Not even Erasmus?”</p><p>Laurent doesn’t reply. He can’t, his head filled with a thick fog that refuses to dissipate. Had he eaten anything that morning, he would have thought Kastor had drugged him. There’s a heat in his belly, and it only grows worse with each second Kastor does not move.</p><p>“Please,” Laurent says in Veretian. He wants to cry and he’s not sure why. </p><p>The first of Kastor’s fingers does not hurt. Kastor pushes it inside in one single movement, all the way to the knuckle, and Laurent clenches around him without meaning to. He wonders if Kastor can feel his heartbeat there, a sound made flesh around his pinky.</p><p>Laurent writhes against the bed, trying to get some friction, but Kastor squeezes his wrists to keep him still. </p><p>The process is slow but practiced. Laurent can feel Kastor’s ease in his paused movements, in the routine of it all. A few drops of oil, another finger. Every time Kastor moves his hand Laurent thinks of telling him to stop, but then Kastor’s fingers are sinking into him again, and the drag of them against his rim feels like something Laurent has no words for. </p><p>There’s a wet spot on the pillow Laurent’s hiding his face into. It takes him a long time to realize he’s been drooling. Still is.</p><p>After a while, the fingers disappear. Laurent clenches around nothing twice, then remembers Erasmus telling him to breathe through the breach. Tense and awkward, Laurent braces himself for Kastor’s cock.</p><p>“Just do it,” Laurent says irritably. He’s been counting in his head, and the wait has been far too long. </p><p>Kastor’s face is between his cheeks again. He’s breathing heavily against Laurent’s hole, on purpose. “I don’t think I will,” he says, and leans in.</p><p>It only takes a finger to make Laurent come undone. Kastor rubs his thumb into Laurent, tongue flicking around it, lapping at the wet mess of oil and spit. Laurent doesn’t want it to end like this, with nothing inside except for the tip of Kastor’s finger, with nothing touching his cock. But that’s exactly what happens.</p><p>After, once Laurent has spent all over his own stomach and the sheets, Kastor lets go of his wrists and lies down. Laurent doesn’t need to look at them to know they’ll be bruised come morning.</p><p>“Is that all it takes to keep you quiet?” Kastor says. His tone is mocking, but his hand in Laurent’s hair dulls the jab. The caress has Laurent shifting closer. “You’re awfully simple.”</p><p>Laurent doesn’t mind the insult. He likes the way Kastor’s chest feels against his cheek far too much to complain, and so he keeps his words to himself and curls up closer and closer to Kastor, until the space between them disappears completely. </p><p>The beating of Kastor’s heart is slow, unlike his own. Laurent feels flushed and sweaty, wet on his front where his spent is drying, wet between his cheeks where Kastor’s spit is dribbling out of him. He knows he ought to get up and clean himself, but this is the closest to Kastor he has ever been allowed to be.</p><p>With a hand curled under his chin, Laurent dozes off.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>In the morning the room is so cold Laurent’s face aches with it. The rest of his body is hidden away under the covers, and an additional layer of furs has been added to keep his—their—feet from freezing during the night. A boar’s, perhaps.</p><p>Kastor’s chest is not a fire, and so its warmth is relative. Laurent pulls the sheets over his head, elbowing Kastor’s side in the process, and settles once more with his mouth leaking over his husband’s nipple. He isn’t pushed away.</p><p>“I’m sore,” Laurent says, knowing Kastor’s awake. He clenches and unclenches, the discomfort like a hum under his skin. </p><p>“You enjoy whining,” Kastor replies. Then, to the unasked question between them: “Two fingers and you’re bedridden.”</p><p>Disappointment makes Laurent hold onto the sheets to keep Kastor from seeing his face. <em> He hasn’t fucked me </em>, Laurent thinks sullenly. There’d been oil and unconsciousness. Why couldn’t it happen that way? Quickly and painlessly. Easily.</p><p>Under the covers, Laurent finds one of Kastor’s hands. He plays with it, thinking his words through, then wraps his fingers around two of Kastor’s. The circle is thick. One more finger would match a cock.</p><p>Laurent’s hand wanders lower, stops at the thick trail of hair on Kastor’s navel. It’s like a road Laurent does not dare take, and so he keeps his touch feather-light, petting. Kastor’s lower half is out of sight, but even without seeing Laurent knows he’s nude.</p><p>“Soak with me?” </p><p>“In this weather?” Kastor says. “I’d rather keep my toes.”</p><p>Laurent rolls his eyes freely. “In warm water. Did you think I meant the ocean?”</p><p>Kastor’s hand smooths over Laurent’s back, palm pressing into the knobs of his spine like he’s trying to sink them in. “Find Isander and ask him for ointments. A bath will do little for your pain.”</p><p>“I’m not in pain.”</p><p>“‘<em> I’m sore </em> ’,” Kastor says in a high-pitched voice. It sounds nothing like Laurent’s. “‘ <em> I would like to soak. I would like— </em>’”</p><p>Laurent tugs at the hairs under his fingers, hard. Kastor’s yelp is so rewarding he does not think to be scared or scramble away from punishment. He laughs as Kastor slips out of the bed, burying his face into the pillow to drown the sound.</p><p>The sheets disappear. Cold slams into him from all directions, his camisole thin and ridden up. He’s still laughing when Kastor’s hands close around his ankles and pull. </p><p>“Stop,” Laurent says, choked with cold and scratching at the floor to get away. The tiles are freezing against his bare stomach. “I didn’t—stop.”</p><p>Kastor drags him in silence across the room and towards a door Laurent’s never crossed. It is easy to conjure up the worst—whips, blades, spikes—but in the end, what hides on the other side of that threshold are private baths. There is an empty, circular hole in the middle of the room, tiled blue, and it floods with steaming water when Kastor pulls on a rope.</p><p>Laurent sits up, shivering. The look he gives Kastor is meant to make him whither, but instead gets him a raised eyebrow.</p><p>“I did as you bid me, Your Grace,” Kastor says. </p><p>The room quickly fills with hot steam. Tiles that were once cold as ice start to thaw, warming up and dripping water like sweat. Laurent keeps his eyes on Kastor, who slowly descends into the pool. The water barely reaches his stomach.</p><p>Laurent unlaces his throat and wrists and slips out of his camisole. He knows Kastor is looking at him, but there is no point in feeling shame when he remembers Kastor’s tongue on him, his fingers slipping inside and dripping with warm oil.</p><p>There are soaps and towels and bottles of colorful liquids. Laurent ignores them all, half-walking, half-swimming to where Kastor stands against the edge of the tub.</p><p>“I’m cold,” Laurent lies. The steam is making him sweat. “I also landed on my wrist when you dragged me out of bed.”</p><p>“And the whining never ceases.”</p><p>“What else is a monarch to do but whine?”</p><p>“Rule,” Kastor says. “Wear a crown, conquer land… The list is quite long.” </p><p>Neither of them mentions how far Laurent is from being a monarch.</p><p>“I’m cold,” Laurent says again. This time, he presses his body into Kastor’s, impossibly close. “Will you…”</p><p>Kastor does not wait to be instructed, his arms suddenly around Laurent, a splayed hand rubbing warmth into Laurent’s back.</p><p>To Laurent’s disappointment, all they do is soak.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“A toast to my son,” Theomedes says. The goblet in his hand trembles, wine sloshing over the edge. All of him has been trembling for months, and so no one is surprised.</p><p>Inevitably, Laurent’s gaze falls on Damianos, the obvious subject of his father’s speech. He’s three seats away, looking politely bored. Jokaste’s hand is on his, their interlocked fingers a public display unusual enough to make Laurent notice. Perhaps she too is tired of her husband’s wandering hands.</p><p>Laurent shifts in his seat, thighs itching. The chiton Kastor dressed him in is not made out of linen or cotton or any cloth Laurent’s skin likes. Its color is strange, far from the calm whites and pale creams Laurent usually wears around the palace. Even Kastor’s choice of clothes is unfamiliar, all deep purple colors and golden threads. </p><p>“Kastor,” Theomedes says, his mouth the closest to a smile it’s ever been. Laurent stops fidgeting. “Kyros of Aegina. May his journey be pleasant and his decisions wise.”</p><p>Kastor accepts the lukewarm praise with grace. He nods as the men at the table congratulate him, pretending he doesn’t know that being the Kyros of Aegina is nothing compared to being a prince, pretending he doesn’t care. </p><p>Laurent does not eat another bite that night.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The laces on his camisole are too tight. Laurent dressed in a haste, in anger, pulling at the knots on his wrists until the skin underneath tingled. There will be no undressing tonight, not unless Kastor rips the clothes off of him.</p><p>“We leave at dawn,” Kastor says, already free of his own stiff disguise. The ceremonial chiton lies on the floor, harboring wrinkles, and Laurent’s fingers twitch on his lap with the urge to pick it up. And burn it. “If the weather is good we’ll reach Aegina in two fortnights.”</p><p>Laurent frowns. “You were not gone that long when you—”</p><p>“There is a summer palace outside the capital. We’ll stay there a week. Perhaps more.” The slide of Kastor’s body under the sheets distracts them both for a moment. “It’ll delay the journey.”</p><p>“Why must we go? It is not summer.”</p><p>Kastor tugs at the furs Laurent is hoarding, no real strength behind it. If he wanted to, he could make Laurent sleep without them, on the floor, out on a balcony. The tug serves as a reminder.</p><p>Their legs meet under the covers, one cold, one burning. But they don’t tangle. Laurent won’t let them, stiff as he is with anger.</p><p>“I thought you’d be ecstatic,” Kastor says wryly. He turns his face to stare at Laurent better. “Didn’t you say you’d love Aegina?”</p><p>Laurent did. He ignores the comment. “Why didn’t you tell me?”</p><p>“Tell you what? That the King had decided to strip me of my title and give me a lower one instead? There was nothing to discuss.”</p><p>“No,” Laurent says, “but I could have—”</p><p>“Bedded him into reconsideration?” Kastor snorts, the gesture cold and familiar. He is the man Laurent met months ago, the one that refused to kiss him at the wedding and had him dragged out of his rooms. “The King does not share Damianos’ tastes. Unless of course your plan was to bed Damianos and bargain with him directly.”</p><p>“Comforted you.”</p><p>Kastor stills completely. </p><p>“You’ll be respected in Aegina,” Laurent says, “and we’ll be away from them.”</p><p>In his stupor, Kastor does not complain when Laurent leans over him to blow out the candles. He lets his limbs be moved, rearranged, as Laurent tucks himself against his chest, forcing Kastor’s pliant arms to wrap around him. </p><p>Kastor’s loose grip on Laurent changes gradually. By the time Laurent feels the first signs of sleep, Kastor is holding him so tightly he cannot take a deep breath or shift or even writhe. He doesn’t complain.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“He’ll give you to a Kyros,” Laurent says. “To a friend.”</p><p>Of Damianos.</p><p>Kallias, still on his knees, nods and nods and nods. It’s hard to tell if he’s scared at all of what’s to become of him. Perhaps he’s been trained not to care.</p><p>Laurent bends over at the waist so he can reach Kallias’ ear. The smell of oil and flowers is strongest there, as though Kallias’ own pores produce it.</p><p>“Erasmus will miss you,” he says. “I can’t imagine Prince Damianos will travel often to Delpha.”</p><p>Kallias’ breathing stutters. Otherwise, he stays completely silent.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The summer palace is full of gardens. </p><p>Laurent stares at the dead leaves and frozen branches and tries to imagine what they would look like during spring, ripe with flowers and fruit and sunshine. What the soil under his bare feet would feel like, the warm water of the ocean against his skin and the songs of birds in his ears. </p><p>There is a statue close to the entrance, surrounded by endless flower beds that are now nothing but dug up dirt. Laurent stares at the woman’s features, her long nose, her strong jaw. He’s about to read the carved name by her feet when Kastor’s chest presses against his back.</p><p>Laurent is wearing the thickest coat he owns, a wedding gift. It is the only thing that survived his rage fit. Kastor sneaks both hands into the furs, seeking out the warmth of Laurent’s stomach. Even through layers of clothes Laurent can feel how cold his fingers are, the tips like ice cubes.</p><p>“Egeria,” Kastor says. His chin is digging into the top of Laurent’s skull. </p><p>Laurent makes a confused noise, too cold to speak up.</p><p>“The statue,” Kastor goes on. “It doesn’t look like her.”</p><p><em> They never do </em>, Laurent almost says, thinking of the lazily built statues of his own parents. Mother’s was too thin, Father’s too tall. It seems strange that sculptors could stare for so long at a rotting corpse and still forget its details.</p><p>“She was…” Kastor’s pause is long, full of things Laurent can’t comprehend. It stretches and bends and does not snap, not until Kastor settles for the right words. “Sensible.”</p><p>Laurent tilts his head back on Kastor’s shoulder, leaning back into him. “And your mother?”</p><p>He expects Kastor not to answer. He doesn’t know what he’d say if Kastor asked him about Mother. Kind, sensible, level-headed. Those are not words Laurent would use to describe Hennike, but he knows they apply to mothers. Sometimes.</p><p>Kastor’s lips on his cheek stun Laurent into silence. “My mother had no statues built of her,” he says, fast, like he wants the words out of his mouth once and for all. “Or palaces.”</p><p>A cruel draft of wind forces them inside, rattling branches and bringing rain with it. Laurent stays pressed close, rubbing warmth into Kastor’s fingers through the furs.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The east wing faces the ocean. It’s full of airy corridors and wide windows, ceilings so high Laurent has to crane his neck to look at them. Kastor says it’s cool in the summer and unbearable in the winter, and so they sacrifice the sea views for heat, settling into the west wing instead. </p><p>Their room is all wood and cream colors. Laurent likes the bed, its four posts sturdy enough to resist any pull, the thick curtains that keep the wind away, and the golden candle holders on the walls that remind him of Vere. But above all, he likes the fireplace.</p><p>“Still cold?” Kastor says as he settles next to Laurent on the floor. The tiles are almost comfortable. “The bed is warmer.”</p><p>Laurent stares at the dancing flames, edging closer to them with his whole body. He can’t think of a good response.</p><p>Eventually, Kastor tries to bribe him into moving away. First there is dinner, served hot and steamy and waiting for them on the bed, then there is the promise of a bath to chase the last of the ride’s cold away. At last, Kastor tries to undress him while Laurent picks at the burning logs, but gives up quickly when he realizes he’s no match to the complicated knots and laces and belts of Laurent’s clothes.</p><p>“You cannot sleep here,” Kastor says. He smells of wine and scented water, and Laurent leans into him just as easily as he’d leaned into the fire. “It’s been a full day of staring. You’ll damage your eyes.”</p><p>Laurent blinks, slowly, as if to prove a point. He doesn’t move, and Kastor sighs into his hair. Defeated.</p><p>It takes three slaves to change their sleeping arrangements. One holds all the pillows and folded sheets, the others carry the mattress away from its wooden contraption and set it as close to the flames as it can be without risking a fire. They ask no questions, pass no judgment. Laurent watches them flutter around the room like busy birds.</p><p>He undresses under the covers, with Kastor’s clumsy hands making him laugh. The fire keeps his front warm, and Kastor’s body against his takes care of the rest. Though the day has been long and tiring, Laurent spreads his legs enough to catch Kastor’s cock between his thighs, then closes them and locks his ankles together. </p><p>“Please?” Laurent says, smiling into the pillow when Kastor huffs. </p><p>Kastor keeps him in place with one hand on his stomach. He fucks Laurent’s thighs slowly at first, the tip of his cock dripping onto the mattress, and then the rhythm changes, picks up, turns into something that makes Laurent’s toes curl. His own cock is hard, but when he reaches down to relieve himself Kastor pauses.</p><p>Annoyed, Laurent says, “But I—”</p><p>“No,” Kastor says simply. He does not start moving again until Laurent slides both hands under the pillow.</p><p>The way the flames flicker and stutter makes Laurent close his eyes, dizzy with contentment. He opens them as soon as Kastor’s cock slides away from his thighs and presses into his hole, the head not quite breaching him so that it all dribbles out of him.</p><p>Laurent turns his head so he can look at Kastor and receives a kiss on his jaw for the effort. </p><p>“I forgot the oil,” Kastor says in explanation. “Tomorrow.”</p><p>Tomorrow, Laurent thinks. And the next day, and the one after that. A whole life of it. In Aegina, there’ll be no brothers or kings to answer to. They’ll have a home like this, and perhaps Laurent will have a statue built, flowers planted. Life stretches before him, unfurling, expanding. He can’t believe he ever envied Auguste anything.</p><p>“Sleep,” Kastor says, and the words sound strange, soft with a familiarity Laurent has missed.</p><p>It’s Veretian.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading. If you liked this story, I advise you to subscribe to it. As I edited this last chapter, I decided to cut out a very, very long sex scene, which I might post eventually (when I have the time to edit it thoroughly). </p><p>Thank you, Kass, for your infinite patience. I hope this was something you enjoyed at least a little.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>